UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


FROM  THE    LIBRARY   Ol 

BENJAMIN  PARKE  AVERY. 


GIFT  OF  MRS.  AVERY, 

x-  August,  1896. 

Accessions  No.tf  3ffi&       Class  No . 


-   xx^ 

z^z^Z y~ 


T  H  E 


POEMS 


OP 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

\  v 

REVISED    AND~  ENLARGED    EDITION. 

WITH  A  MEMOIR 
BY  THE  EEV.  DERWENT  COLERIDGE. 

IN    TWO    VOLUMES: 

VOL.  I. 


A3  A 


NEW  YORK: 
W.   J.  WIDDLETON,   PUBLISHER, 

M  DCCC  LXV. 


Entered  necoHinpc  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1SG4, 
BY  W.  J.  WIDDLETOX, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  t la- 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


M'CKEA  AXD  MILLEI:,  STERKOTYPEKS. 


TO 
THE   MEMORY    OP 

HELEN    PRAED, 

THIS   COLLECTION 
OF    HER    LAMENTED     HUSBAND'S    POEMS, 

PUBLISHED 

IN   FULFILMENT   OF    HER   LONG-CHERISHED    WISH    AND    INTENTION, 

IS    AFFECTIONATELY     INSCRIBED 

BY 

HER  DAUGHTERS. 


AMERICAN  PUBLISHER'S  ADVERTISEMENT, 


INASMUCH  as  several  editions  of  these  poems  have 
already  appeared  in  this  country,  it  seems  proper  to 
explain  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
published.  In  1844,  Mr.  Rufus  "YV.  Griswold  made  a 
collection  of  such  of  Praed's  Poems  as  he  could  ob 
tain,  wrhich  was  published  by  Henry  G.  Langley,  of 
New  York,  in  a  volume  of  287  pages. 

In  1852,  he  edited  a  second  edition  of  290  pages, 
published  by  J.  S.  Redtield.  The  chief  additions  were 
"  The  Legend  of  the  Teufel-Haus,"  the  prize  poems 
of  "  Australasia"  and  "  Athens,"  and  four  Charades, 
making  nine  in  all.  In  1857,  a  third  edition  was 
issued  by  Redfield,  pp.  311,  adding  ten  Charades, 
and  two  political  songs. 

In  1860,  a  new  edition  in  two  volumes  was  edited 
by  W.  H.  Whitmore,  of  Boston,  and  fifty  copies 
were  printed  in  quarto  form.  This  edition  of  310 
pages  and  304  pages,  contained  a  number  of  poems 
from  the  "  Etonian,"  and  "  Knight's  Magazine,"  as 
"Gog,"  "The  County  Ball,"  "Changing  Quarters," 
&c.,  and  some  other  poems,  of  which  the  most  im 
portant  was  "The  Legend  of  the  Drachenfels." 

The   present   edition,    being    the    fifth    issued   in 


6         AMERICAN     PUBLISHER    S     ADVERTISEMENT. 

America,  contains  a  number  of  poems  furnished  to 
the  English  editor  by  the  relatives  and  friends  of 
the  poet.  The  poems  wrongly  attributed  to  Praed, 
in  the  fourth  edition,  consist  of  productions  which 
appeared  in  the  "New  Monthly  Magazine"  in  1840. 
These  are  to  be  regarded  as  the  work  of  some  imita 
tor,  very  probably  of  a  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  who  wrote  at 
that  time. 

It  may  not  be  improper  to  state  that,  previous  to 
the  appearance  of  the  authorized  English  edition,  it 
had  been  decided  by  the  present  publisher  to  issue  a 
new  and  corrected  edition.  Considerable  progress 
had  been  made  when  the  English  edition  was  an 
nounced  ;  and  this  collection,  an  exact  reprint  of  Dr. 
Coleridge's  new  English  edition,  is  offered  to  the  pub 
lic,  as  that  by  which  the  family  of  the  poet  expeet  his 
fame  will  be  preserved. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  merits  of  the 
poems  here  presented.  Not  only  has  the  American 
public  called  for  these  successive  editions,  but  it  is 
in  some  degree  owing  to  this  trans  Atlantic  appreci 
ation  that  Praed's  name  has  been  kept  before  the 
literary  public  at  home.  Such  of  his  friends  and 
admirers  as  have  seen  these  collections  have  been 
urgent  in  their  demand  for  an  authorized  edition  ;  and 
it  is  most  pleasant  to  find  the  task  has  been  placed  in 
the  hands  of  one  so  competent  as  the  Rev.  Dervvent 
Coleridge. 

YORK,  November  1,  1864. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  Poems  of  WIXTHROP  MACKWORTH  PEAED 
were  prepared  for  publication  after  his  decease  by 
his  widow,  and  were  to  have  been  carried  through 
the  press,  at  her  request,  by  the  Rev.  Derwent 
Coleridge,  to  whom  the  publication  of  an  introduc 
tory  Memoir  was  also  intrusted.  By  her  death  the 
prosecution  of  this  undertaking  has  devolved  upon 
her  daughters,  under  whose  direction  the  present 
collected  edition  is  now,  in  accordance  with  their 
lamented  mother's  design,  presented  to  the  public. 

Their  acknowledgments  are  gratefully  oifered  to 
the  many  kind  friends  by  whose  contributions  and 
suggestions  the  work  has  from  time  to  time  been 
assisted. 

To  Lady  Young,  the  author's  sister,  the  collection 
is  indebted  for  many  interesting  pieces  in  her  posses 
sion.  These  are  chiefly  of  early  date,  and  are  now 
published  for  the  first  time.  She  has  added  to  the 
obligation  by  placing  in  the  hands  of  the  compiler  of 
the  Memoir  a  number  of  Mr.  Praed's  letters,  and  has 
materially  contributed,  by  her  recollections  of  his 
early  life,  to  the  interest  and  accuracy  of  the  record. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Rev.  John  Moultrie,  the  Rev.  B.  II.  Kennedy, 
D.  D.,  the  Rev.  C.  H.  Hartshorne,  Charles  Knight, 
Esq.,  with  other  of  Mr.  Praed's  valued  friends,  have 
also  furnished  important  aid ;  and  with  these  must 
be  named  the  late  Rev.  E.  C.  Hawtrey,  D.  D.,  the 
late  Robert  Hiidyard,  Esq.,  Q.  C.,  and  the  late 
Alaric  Watts,  Esq. 

More  recently  the  editor  of  the  last  American 
edition  of  Mr  Praed's  Poems  has  shown  the  interest 
which  he  continues  to  take  in  the  subject — an  in 
terest  largely  shared  by  a  numerous  body  of  his 
countrymen — by  his  kind  and  valuable  communica 
tions. 

It  only  remains  to  add  that,  in  bringing  out  these 
Poems,  the  Rev.  Derwent  Coleridge  has  had  the 
assistance  and  co-operation  of  Sir  George  Young, 
Bart.,  the  author's  nephew,  who  has  carefully  verified 
the  text  of  the  Poems,  collating  them  with  the 
author's  manuscript  copies,  from  which  many  impor 
tant  corrections,  and  several  large  additions,  have 
been  derived,  and  to  whom  is  due  the  arrangement 
adopted  in  the  present  edition. 


CONTENTS   OF  VOL.  I, 


PAGE 

DEDICATION 3 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHER'S  ADVERTISEMENT  ....  5 

ADVERTISEMENT 7 

MEMOIR  .  13 


TALES. 

LILLIAN.     CANTO  1 73 

CANTO  II 82 

GOG.     CANTO  I. 91 

"       CANTO  II 106 

THE  TROUBADOUR,     CANTO  1 118 

"                               CANTO  II 144 

CANTO  III.          .......  168 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE    .        .        .        .  182 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS 200 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  BELMONT 213 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS 237 

THE  RED  FISHERMAN 247 

1* 


10  CONTEXTS. 


POEMS   OF   LOVE  AND   FANCY. 

PAGE 

LIDIAN'S  LOVE 259 

MY  FIRST  FOLLY 274 

A  SHOOTING  STAR 276 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  FOR  A  FRIEND           .        .        .        .  278 

L'lNCONNUE 280 

PEACE  BE  THINE 282 

TO .      I.    "WE   MET   BUT   IN    ONE    GIDDY    DANCE"              .  283 

"        II.  "As  O'ER  THE  DEEP  THE  SEAMAN  ROVES"  285 

"       III.  "  0  LADY,  WHEN  I  MUTELY  GAZE"       .         .  288 

THE  PORTRAIT 292 

To  .     "  STILL  is  THE  EARTH,  AND  STILL  THE  SKY"    .  294 

"  IN   SUCH  A   TIME   AS   THIS,  WHEN  EVERY  HEART 

is  LIGHT" 297 

THE  PARTING 300 

THE  LAST            304 

A  FAREWELL 307 

AN  EXCUSE 311 

SECOND  LOVE 313 

A  RETROSPECT 315 

A  BALLAD:   TEACHING  HOW  POETRY  is  BEST  PAID  FOR  318 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  LILLIAN    .  .327 

STANZAS  SENT  IN  EXCHANGE  FOR  Two  DRAWINGS         .  329 

FRAGMENTS  OF  A  DESCRIPTIVE  POEM          .        .        .  .331 

A  PREFACE 334 

LOVE  AT  A  ROUT  338 


CONTENTS.  11 

PAGE 

THE  MODERN  NECTAR 341 

MY  OWN  FUNERAL 344 

TIME'S  SONG 347 

FROM  METASTASIO 348 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  EVE  OF  A  COLLEGE  EXAMINATION  349 

ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES 353 

ARMINIUS 356 

REMEMBER  ME 360 

To  THE  KEV.  DERWENT  COLERIDGE        .        .        .        .  362 

FROM  GOETHE 364 

MEMORY 365 

FUIMUS 367 

LADY  C 's  THANKS           , 369 

CHILDHOOD  AND  HIS  VISITORS 370 

CHILDHOOD'S  CRITICISM 373 

BEAUTY  AND  HER  VISITORS 376 

HOW   AM   I   LIKE   HER? 379 

MY   LITTLE    COUSINS 381 

ON  AN  INFANT  NEPHEW 383 

LINES                               , 385 

A  FRAGMENT 387 

HOPE  AND  LOVE 388 

SELWORTHY 391 

CASSANDRA 393 

SIR  NICHOLAS  AT  MARSTON  MOOR 397 

THE  COVENANTER'S  LAMENT  FOR  BOTHWELL  BRIGG       .  401 

KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE         ....  404 

WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  PAGE  OF  "  THE  KEEPSAKE"       .  406 

ANTICIPATION 408 

LADY  MYRTLE'S  "BoccACio" 410 

QUEEN  ADELAIDE .  414 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAG  E 

HESSE  HOMBTTRG 416 

LORD  MAYO 418 

BERSTED  LODGE  ........  419 

LATIN  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN 421 

THE  SABBATH 423 

THE  NEWLY- WEDDED 425 

To  HELEN,  WITH  KEBLE'S  "CHRISTIAN  YEAR"  .  .  427 

"  "  JULY  7,  183G 429 

SKETCH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY  FIVE  MONTHS  cr.n  .  .  430 

SONNET  TO  R.  C.  HILDYARD 433 

SONNET  TO  B.  J.  M.  P. 434 

To  HELEN,  WITH  CRABBE'S  POEMS 435 

To  HELEN,  JULY  7,  1837 436 

SONNET  WRITTEN  LN  LOCKHART'S  "LIFE  OF  SCOTT"  .  .  433 

VERSES  WRITTEN  IN  A  CHILD'S  BOOK  .  .  .  .  439 

To  HELEN,  WITH  A  SMALL  CANDLESTICK  ....  440 

••  "  WITH  SOUTHEY'S  POEMS,  JULY  7,  1838  .  441 

THE  HOME  OF  HIS  CHILDHOOD 442 

To  HELEN,  WITH  A  DIARY 443 

"         "         JULY  7,   1839                                                         .  444 


MEMOIR. 


MEMOIR. 


THE  literary  productions  of  WINTHEOP  MACK- 
WORTH  PKAED,  though  given  to  the  world  many 
years  ago,  in  publications  more  or  less  of  an  ephem 
eral  character,  continue  to  excite  considerable  in 
terest.  Of  the  Poems,  three  separate  collections 
hav.e  appeared  in  America,  neither  of  them  complete 
or  accurate,  yet  reflecting  credit  on  the  taste  and 
enterprise  of  our  transatlantic  brethren.  In  this 
country,  an  authorized  edition  has  for  some  time 
been  announced,  not  before  it  had  been  long  expected 
and  desired.  The  delay  has  been  occasioned  by  no 
want  of  zeal  on  the  part  of  those  more  immediately 
concerned  in  the  undertaking,  who  may  rather  be 
charged  with  too  anxious  a  sense  of  duty,  than  with 
any  indifference  of  feeling.  Though  well  aware  that 
there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  books,  no  less  than  of 
men,  and  that  a  debt  is  due  to  the  generation  which 
is  passing  away  for  which  the  next  can  give  no 
acquittance,  they  have  been  willing  to  forego  the 
advantage  of  a  timely  appearance,  and  even  to  be 
held  defaulters  in  a  matter  of  admitted  obligation, 
rather  than  bring  out  what  seemed  to  them  an  imper 
fect  work,  or  do  less  than  justice  to  him  whose 


16  MEMOIR. 

memory  as  a  man,  no  less   than  an  author,  it  is  in 
tended  to  preserve. 

The  life  of  an  individual  may  be  written  for 
various  reasons,  and  the  undertaking  in  each  case  be 
fairly  justified.  He  may  have  been  sufficiently 
distinguished  in  the  world  whether  of  thought  or 
action,  in  literature  or  in  public  life,  to  draw  the  eyes 
of  men  to  his  private  fortunes  and  character, — what 
he  has  done  leading  them  to  inquire  what  he  was ; 
or  there  may  have  been  something  in  the  man  him 
self,  some  rare  excellence,  or  strange  peculiarity, 
which  may  impart  a  special  interest  to  his  por 
traiture  ;  or,  lastly,  by  a  certain  felicity  of  nature, 
aided  perhaps  by  an  advantageous  position,  he  may 
have  drawn  around  him  so  large  a  circle  of  admiring 
friends,  that  the  ordinary  monuments  of  regret  and 
affection  have  been  deemed  inadequate.  Thus  the 
pen  has  been  called  in  to  make  up  the  deficiencies  of 
the  statuary  and  the  painter.  Each  of  these  motives 
might  readily  be  illustrated  by  appropriate  examples, 
but  they  more  commonly  act  in  combination ;  and  so 
it  is  in  the  present  instance.  If  one  should  be 
deemed  weak  and  insufficient,  it  may  yet  add 
strength  to  the  plea  which  it  cannot  support  alone. 
Not  unknown,  nor  without  mark  in  the  arena  of 
political  conflict,  the  name  of  PEAED  is  still  remem 
bered  as  at  least  that  of  a  forward  pupil  in  the 
school  of  statesmanship  ;  and  though  his  literary 
honors,  won  in  earliest  manhood,  and  sustained  by 
the  casual  productions  of  a  leisure  hour,  were  worn 


M  E  M  O  I  R  .  17 

carelessly,  while  he  was  preparing  for  higher  distinc 
tions  aiid  more  serious  duties,  yet,  now  that  years 
have  gone  by,  and  we  have  to  audit  the  past  with  no 
expectation  of  any  future  account,  we  find  that  he 
has  left  behind  him  a  permanent  expression  of  wit 
and  grace,  of  refined  and  tender  feeling,  of  inventive 
fancy  and  acute  observation,  unique  in  character,  and 
his  own  by  an  undisputed  title.  Some  brief  record, 
if  not  of  the  rising  orator  and  politician,  yet  of  the 
accomplished  poet  and  sparkling  essayist,  may  surely 
accompany  his  writings,  and  join  in  whatever  wel 
come  they  may  receive.  Such  at  least  may  be  taken 
as  the  pretext  and  occasion  of  the  following  biogra 
phy  :  but  it  need  not  be  concealed  that  the  work  has 
been  undertaken,  from  feelings  of  a  more  personal 
nature,  and  with  somewhat  of  a  higher  aim.  So 
marked  and  individual  a  character,  so  full  both  in  its 
moral  and  intellectual  endowments,  so  fine  in  modifi 
cation,  so  peculiar  in  the  interchange  and  play  of 
light  and  shade,  if  happily  depicted,  might,  it  was 
thought,  be  studied  with  pleasure  and  advantage  on 
its  own  account.  And  if  this  language  be  criticised 
as  the  heightened  utterance  of  partial  friendship,  it 
will  yet  be  repeated  by  many  voices.  To  his  contem 
poraries,  to  all  by  whom  he  was  intimately  known, 
to  very  many  who  knew  him  mainly  by  report,  and 
who  perhaps  cherish  the  remembrance  of  a  casual 
meeting,  the  name  of  WINTHROP  PRAED  is  still  as 
the  sound  of  music.  The  depths  of  his  nature  were 
indeed  opened  but  to  few;  not  often  or  willingly 


18  MEMOIR. 

to  them  :  but  he  had  a  special  faculty  and  privilege, 
better  than  any  craft  of  will,  by  which  he  attracted 
even  when  he  seemed  to  repel, — and  was  more  than 
popular  even  when,  in  his  younger  and  gayer  days,  he 
appeared  to  court  animadversion  and  defy  dislike. 

Wintbrop  Mackworth  Praed,  the   subject   of  the 
present  Memoir,  was  the  third  and  youngest  son  of 
William  Mackworth  Praed,  Sergeant-at-law,  and  for 
many  years  chairman  of  the  Audit  Board.     He  was 
born  in  London,  in  the  house  then  occupied  by  his 
father,  35  John  Street,  Bedford  Row,  on  the  26th  of 
July,    1802.     Bitton    House,  at  Teignmouth,  in  the 
county  of  Devon,  his  father's  country  seat,  is  how 
ever  to  be  regarded  as  his  paternal  home.     He  was 
called    Winthrop   from    the    maidsn    name   of   his 
mother,    a   branch    of    whose   family   emigrated   to 
America,  and  rose  to  eminence  in  the  time  of  Charles 
the  First ;    and  Mackworth  from   his    father,  whose 
family  originally  bore  that  name,  but  had  taken  the 
name  of  Praed  some  generations  earlier.     His  con 
stitution  was  delicate,  and  when  about  six  years  of 
age    he    passed    through    a    severe    illness,    wThich 
threatened   his   life.     On   this    occasion   a   copy   of 
verses  was  written  in  his  name  by  his  father,  a  man 
of   highly   cultivated   mind,   by   whom    the    poetic 
faculty  which  early  developed  itself  in  his  youngest 
son  was  carefully  fostered  and   directed.     As  these 
verses,  in    addition  to  their  intrinsic  merit,  have  a 
biographical  interest,  they  are  here  preserved. 


M  E  M  O  I  K  . 


19 


AUGUST,  1808. 

LITTLE    WINTHROP'S     MEDITATION      ON      HIS      RECOVERY      FROM   A 
DANGEROUS     ILLNESS. 

To  Thee,  Almighty  God  !  who  from  the  bed 

Of  sickness  hast  vouchsafed  to  raise  me  up 

To  health  and  strength  renewed,  with  grateful  heart 

I  offer  up  my  praises  and  thanksgivings. 

And  I  beseech  Thee  that  my  life  preserved 

May  through  Thy  grace  be  constantly  employed 

In  goodly  works,  and  keeping  Thy  commandments! 

You  next,  my  dearest  mother,  I  approach 
"With  thankfulness  and  joy !     You  gave  me  birth, 
You  fostered  me  in  infancy,  and  taught 
My  dawning  mind  to  seek  our  heavenly  Father, 
To  trust  in  Him,  to  love  and  to  adore  Him. 
You  through  my  lingering  illness  wakeful  sat, 
The  tedious  nights  beside  me,  while  your  voice, 
Sweeter  than  Zephyr's  breath,  soothed  my  complaints, 
Assuaged  my  pains,  and  lulled  me  to  repose. 
Whate'er  of  medicine  passed  my  feverish  lips, 
"What  little  food  my  stomach  would  admit, 
Your  hand  administered.     Oh  !   if  at  times 
I  answered  crossly,  or  in  froward  mood 
Seemed  to  reject  the  help  you  fondly  tendered, 
Impute  to  the  disorder  all  the  blame, 
And  do  not  think  your  darling  was  ungrateful. 
Not  for  the  riches  of  the  East,  the  power 
Of  mightiest  emperors,  nor  all  the  fame 
Conquest  bestows  on  warriors  most  renowned, 
"Would  I  offend  you — kindest,  best  of  mothers ! 
May  all  your  days  be  blest  with  many  comforts, 
The  last  of  them  far  distant !  and  the  close, 
When  it  shall  come,  be  smoothed  by  resignation, 
And  welcomed  by  the  hope  of  bliss  eternal! 


20  MEMOIR. 

That  th*;  child  should  have  been  made  thus  early 
to  express  the  tender  and  solemn  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  here  imputed  to  him  in  the  language  of  poetry, 
may  perhaps  have  been  no  more  than  a  striking  coin 
cidence  ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  poetic 
faculty,  in  whatever  degree  it  ma}7  have  been  inher 
ited,  was  recognized  at  a  very  early  period,  and  that 
it  was  developed  under  very  favorable  influences. 
His  home  education  was,  indeed,  of  the  best  kind  in 
all  respects.  Ample  evidence  of  this  is  afforded  by 
his  letters  written  from  school  at  a  very  early  age, 
and  which  not  merely  record  an  amount  of  attain 
ment  considerably  beyond  his  years,  but  which, 
exhibit  a  clearness  and  accuracy,  both  of  thought 
and  language,  not  less  remarkable,  and  of  far  surer 
promise.  The  same  remark  applies  with  still  greater 
force  to  his  early  verses.  Indications  of  wit  and 
fancy,  afterwards  so  conspicuous  in  his  writings,  are 
not  wanting ;  but  the  qualities  by  which  they  are 
most  favorably  distinguished  are  distinctness  of 
thought  and  accuracy  of  expression.  The  metrical 
construction  is  always  perfect ;  and  if  these  funda 
mental  excellences  be  due  in  the  first  instance  to  the 
character  of  his  own  mind,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  they  were  brought  out  and  strengthened  by  his 
father's  strict  and  judicious  criticism.  He  never 
spared  the  pruning-knife,  preferring  that  the  literary 
exercises  of  a  boy  should  be  stiff  and  formal,  rather 
than  loose  and  careless.  He  required  plain  sense 


MEMOIR.  21 

plainly  spoken,  and  would  tolerate  no  extravagances. 
But  to  return. 

The  prayer  which  the  child  was  made  to  utter  in 
his  father's  verses,  "  that  the  last  of  his  mother's  days 
might  be  far  distant,"  was  not  granted.  She  died 
about  a  year  afterwards,  too  soon  for  the  loss  to  bo 
severely  felt  by  the  younger  children.  It  can,  how 
ever,  scarcely  be  doubted  that  the  remembrance  of 
his  own  loss  was  present  to  the  mind  of  the  poet,  and 
acted  as  a  stimulus  to  his  imagination  on  more  than 
one  occasion.  The  readers  of  "  The  Troubadour"  will 
remember,  in  this  connection,  the  beautiful  passage — 

"  My  mother's  grave,  ray  mother's  grave,"  &c.     (See  p.  60.) 

Her  place  was  indeed  well  supplied  by  the  care  of  an 
elder  sister,  under  whose  superintendence  his  educa 
tion  was  carried  on  at  home  till  he  had  completed  his 
eighth  year,  when  he  was  sent,  in  1810,  to  Langley 
Broom  School,  near  Colnbrook,  where  he  remained 
under  the  care  of  Mr.  Atkins,  the  gentleman  by  whom 
it  was  then  conducted,  about  four  years.  Such  a  boy 
could  hardly  fail  to  engage  the  particular  attention  of 
his  master  ;  and  it  appears  that  he  made  considerable 
progress  under  the  teaching  which  he  there  received, 
however  much  may  be  ascribed  to  his  own  talent, 
and  the  careful  preparation  which  he  had  received  at 
home.  His  vacations,  moreover,  were  put  to  full 
account,  not  only  in  the  way  of  rest  and  recreation, 
but  of  mental  culture.  His  physical  powers  were  not 
strong,  and  he  was  thus  led  to  prefer  the  amusement 


22  MEMOIR. 

and  quiet  employments  of  which  he  could  partake 
in-doors  to  more  vigorous  and  active  sports.  He 
delighted  in  reading  of  a  more  profitable  kind  than 
is  common  with  young  people,  Plutarch's  lives  being- 
one  of  his  chief  favorites :  Shakespeare  he  would 
read  aloud  to  his  sisters.  Young  as  be  was,  he  already 
took  much  pleasure  in  chess,  of  which  he  continued 
fond  during  the  whole  of  his  life,  and  soon  became  a 
very  good  player.  He  also  amused  himself  with  the 
composition  of  short  dramas,  too  unripe,  as  may  well 
be  supposed,  for  publication,  but  in  which  he  already 
displayed  that  talent  for  drollery  which  he  afterwards 
exhibited  in  so  elegant  and  refined  a  form. 

From  Langley  Broom  School  he  was  sent  to  Eton, 
where  his  father  had  been  educated,  and  where  he  had 
been  preceded  by  his  eldest  brother,  William  Mack- 
worth.  This  important  event  took  place  on  tho  28th 
of  March,  1814,  before  he  had  completed  his  twelfth 
year. 

Of  the  feelings  with  which  he  found  himself  denizen 
ed  among  the  inhabitants  of  this  new  world — new  and 
strange  to  him,  and  he  for  a  while,  it  would  appear, 
strange  to  them — we  have  no  distinct  record.  His 
countenance  at  this  time,  as  remembered  by  one  of 
his  surviving  schoolfellows,  was  grave,  his  complexion 
pale,  and  his  person  slight.  His  appearance  and  man 
ners,  eventually  so  attractive,  were  already  marked 
and  peculiar.  A  studious  and  retiring  boy,  of  deli 
cate  bodily  frame,  he  was  neither  inclined,  nor  from 
want  of  physical  power  enabled,  to  enter  warmly  or 


MEMOIR. 


vigorously  into  active  sports.  His  intellectual  supe 
riority  was  however  speedily  recognized,  and  received 
the  fullest  and  most  appropriate  encouragement. 

He  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the  late  Rev.  J. 
F.  Plumptre,  then  one  of  the  Assistant  Masters,  after 
wards  one  of  the  Fellows,  of  Eton  College,  to  whose 
personal  kindness  and  careful  tuition  he  was  under 
deep  obligation.  His  first  debt  of  gratitude  was  how 
ever  due  to  his  elder  brother,  who  for  some  time 
directed  his  studies  with  a  care  and  ability  of  which 
he  was  duly  sensible.  His  progress  was  rapid,  and  in 
little  more  than  a  year  he  was  "  sent  up  for  good,"  as 
it  is  termed,  for  a  copy  of  Latin  lyrics,  the  first  of  a 
series  of  similar  distinctions,  numerous  beyond  all  pre 
vious  example. 

Meanwhile  his  poetic  faculty  was  exercised  not  alone 
in  the  usual  routine  of  school  exercises,  distinguished 
in  his  case  by  a  sparkling  vein  of  thought  more  than 
commonly  original  and  characteristic.  Poetry,  in  his 
mother-tongue,  was  his  recreation.  His  ready  pen 
sported  with  equal  ease  whether  in  verse  or  prose 
composition. 

It  has  been  said  that  his  poetic  faculty  was  care 
fully  watched  and  cultivated  at  home  ;  the  same 
advantage  attended  him  at  school.  His  tutor,  Mr. 
Plumptre,  made  it  a  practice  to  train  such  of  his 
pupils,  as  showed  any  talent  in  that  direction,  in  the 
composition  of  English  verse,  offering  prizes  for  volun 
tary  competition  on  given  subjects.  Five  or  six 
poems,  some  of  considerable  length,  attest  the  ardor 


24  M  E  M  O  I  R . 

with  which  Praed  entered  into  these  contests.  To 
gether  with  the  present  Lord  Carlisle,  he  carried  off 
most  of  the  honors  ;  and,  besides  the  encouragement 
thus  given,  his  style  in  all  probability  acquired  much 
of  its  classical  elegance  and  remarkable  facility,  as  well 
from  the  practice  thus  afforded,  as  by  the  judicious 
criticism  to  which  his  pieces  were  subjected.  Some 
of  these  exercises,  with  other  early  "buds  of  promise," 
dating  from  the  fourteenth  year  of  ids  age,  have  been 
printed  in  the  following  collection.  However  imma 
ture,  they  will,  it  is  believed,  be  read  with  pleasure,  if 
only  as  throwing  light  upon  the  formation  of  the 
author's  mind. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  productions  were  to  be 
submitted  to  a  wider  public.  In  the  year  1819  there 
appeared  in  print  a  selection  from  the  pages  of  two 
school  periodicals,  "The  College  Magazine,"  and 
"  Horse  Otiosse,"*  which  had  previously  been  circu 
lated  in  manuscript,  and  had  obtained  considerable, 
celebrity  among  the  Etonians  of  that  day,  but  to  which 
Praed,  being  somewhat  junior  to  the  principal  writers, 
had  contributed  nothing.  Some  time  after  the  discon 
tinuance  of  these  miscellanies,  in  the  year  1 820,  Praed 
set  on  foot  the  "Apis  Matina,"  a  manuscript  journal, 
conducted  with  at  least  equal  ability,  of  which  one 

*  The  writers  in  the  "College  Magazine"  and  "Horae  Otioste" 
were  Howard,  now  Lord  Carlisle,  H.  N.  Coleridge,  "W.  Sidney 
Walker,  Moultrie,  Curzon  Neech,  Trower,  and  C.  II.  Towns- 
hend,  all  of  whom,  except  Howard,  afterwards  contributed  to  the 
"Etonian.'' 


MEMOIR.  25 

copy  only  is  known  to  have  been  preserved  entire,  but 
in  which  several  pieces,  afterwards  printed  in  the 
"Etonian,"  originally  appeared.  It  was  in  copying 
out  the  pages  of  the  "Apis  Matina"*  for  circulation 
that  Praed  acquired  his  peculiar  handwriting,  of  which 
Mr.  Charles  Knight,  in  his  "Autobiography  of  a 
Working  Man,"  observes,  "  It  was  the  most  perfect 
calligraphy  I  ever  beheld.  No  printer  could  mistake 
a  word  or  a  letter.  It  was  not  what  is  called  a  running 
hand,  yet  was  written  with  rapidity,  as  I  have  wit 
nessed."  Though  in  the  strictest  sense  a  voluntary 
enterprise  on  the  part  of  the  boys,  yet  their  per 
formances  were  not  regarded  without  interest  by  the 
masters.  The  Rev.  E.  0.  Hawtrey — then  an  Assistant 
— afterwards  Head  Master,  and  eventually  Provost 
of  Eton — to  whom  Praed  was  indebted  for  many  per 
sonal  attentions,  the  more  gratifying  as  he  had  no 
special  connection  with  him  in  the  school,  addressed 
a  letter  of  advice  to  him  on  the  occasion  x>f  this  his 
first  effort  at  editorship,  which  was  inserted  in  the 

*  The  "Apis  Matina"  consisted  of  six  numbers,  written  in  the 
months  of  April  May,  June,  and  July,  1820.  The  principal  con 
tributors,  after  Praed,  who  wrote  about  half  of  it,  were  Trower 
(now  Bishop  of  Gibraltar)  and  F.  Curzon.  The  latter  left  Eton  at 
Election,  1820.  The  following  pieces,  afterwards  printed  in  the 
"Etonian,"  first  appeared  in  the  "Apis  Matina."  The  linos 
"To  Julio,"  "To  Julia,"  "To  Florence,"  "Laura,"  and  "The 
Invocation  to  the  Deities,"  by  Praed.  "The  Temple  of  Diana  at 
Ephesus,"  and  "The  Lapland  Sacrifice,"  by  Curzon.  "Edith," 
"  Genius,"  by  Trower.  The  rest  of  Praed's  poetical  pieces,  and 
nearly  all  his  prose,  were  of  a  satirical  cast,  very  amusing,  but  not 
suited  for  republication. 
2 


2G  MEMOIR. 

second  number.  This  pleasant  relation  continued 
during  the  whole  of  his  school  life,  and  ripened  into 
a  lasting  friendship.* 

The  "Apis  Matina"  was  immediately  succeeded  by 
the  "Etonian."  It  is  upon  his  contributions  to  the  lat 
ter  periodical  that  the  brilliancy  of  Praed's  early  rep 
utation  was  founded,  and  by  which  it  is  still  main 
tained.  The  first  number  of  this  work  was  printed 
and  published  in  October,  1820,  from  which  time  it 
continued  to  appear  monthly  till  July,  1821,  when, 
upon  Praed's  leaving  Eton,  it  was  brought  to  a  close. 

Of  this  publication  Praed,  together  with  his  friend 
Walter  Blunt,  was  the  projector  and  editor,  and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  he  whose  genius 
impressed  upon  it  its  distinctive  character,  and 
chiefly  contributed  to  obtain  for  it  the  reputation 
which  it  still  retains  above  all  other  juvenile  period 
icals.  It  has  been  questioned  in  what  sense  this 
term  is  to  be  understood,  and  whether  this  miscellany 
is  to  be  attributed  in  main  part  to  the  School  or  to 
the  University.  Certainly  in  main  part  to  the  School. 
The  publication  was  indeed  arranged  in  concert  with 
a  few  under-gradual es  who  had  recently  left  Eton, 
young  men  already  of  high  mark,  whose  contribu 
tions  were  of  distinguished  excellence.!  These, 

*  It  was  at  Dr.  Hawtrey's  request  that  the  paper  in  the 
"Etonian,"  vol.  ii.,  p.  74,  on  the  death  of  a  schoolfellow,  was 
written.  He  had  himself  written  some  elegant  Latin  lines  on  the 
same  subject,  which  were  translated  by  Praed.  See  vol.  ii.,  p.  276. 

•f  Among  the  contributors  appear  the  names  of  Henry  Nelson 


MEMOIR. 


27 


however,  in  the  aggregate,  hardly  exceeded  one- 
fourth  part  of  each  number.  The  remainder  was  the 
work  of  actual  schoolboys,  by  far  the  largest  portion 
being  due  to  Praed  himself.  His  was  the  guiding 
spirit ;  and  as  his  productions  exceeded  those  of  his 
associates,  whether  in  the  School  or  at  the  University, 
in  quantity,  so  they  ranked  among  the  very  best  in 
quality. 

The  work  is  agreeably  characterized  by  the  buoy 
ancy  of  youthfuf  spirits,  the  grave  portions  being 
upon  the  whole  of  considerably  less  value  than  the 
gay.  The  writers,  while  they  give  themselves  out 
as  boys,  appear  throughout  under  feigned  names, 
the  whole  being  wrought  up  into  a  sort  of  drama. 
The  leading  articles,  in  which  the  plot  or  action,  if  it 
rnay  be  so  called,  is  carried  on,  bore  the  title  of  the 


Coleridge,  William  Sidney  Walker,  John  Moultrie,  and  John 
Louis  Petit,  to  which  that  of  Chauncey  Hare  Townshend,  omitted 
in  the  printed  list  ("Etonian,"  vol.  ii..  p.  483),  and  who  wrote 
the  sonnet  to  "  Ada,"  which  is  there  attributed  to  Praed,  ought 
to  have  been  added ;  all  of  whom  have  become  known  in  the 
world  of  letters.  The  only  name  in  the  list  supplied  by  Oxford, 
is  that  of  Henry  Neech.  Of  the  youthful  aspirants  thus  early 
associated  with  Praed  in  the  career  of  literary  enterprise,  the 
two  first  named  belong  with  him  to  the  past.  The  Hon.  William 
Ashley,  Edmund  Beales,  William  Chrichton,  The  Hon.  Francis 
Curzon,  Richard  Durnford,  William  Henry  Ord,  Thomas  Powys 
Outram,  and  Walter  Trower,  who,  with  others,  contributed  to 
the  "Etonian,"  were  still  at  school.  Among  the  anonymous 
contributors  were  II.  Streatfield,  and  J.  A.  Kinglake, 

"dear  to  poetry, 
And  dearer  to  his  friends." — Surly  Hall. 


28  MEMOIR. 

King  of  Clubs.  These,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
pages  here  and  there,  in  which  the  principal  dramatis 
personse  are  severally  introduced,  were  uniformly 
written  by  Praed,  sometimes  in  prose,  sometimes  in 
verse,  which  presented  no  obstacle  to  the  rapid  flow 
of  his  thoughts.  It  has  indeed  been  said  that  his 
talent  exhibited  itself  to  most  advantage  in  the  latter 
form  ;  and  perhaps  his  early  prose  compositions  have 
been  unduly  depreciated  by  the  comparison.  That 
they  should  not  possess  the  same  permanent  interest 
as  his  poems,  is  no  more  than  was  to  be  expected. 
Many  of  his  prose  articles,  more  particularly  his 
"leaders,"  are  of  an  occasional  character,  and  the 
fashion  of  this  kind  of  writing  passes  away;  but 
there  is  little  or  no  inferiority  in  point  of  power. 
He  displays  the  same  facility  of  expression,  the  same 
lively  observation,  and  very  much  of  the  same  wit 
and  fancy,  whether  he  writes  in  prose  or  verse. 

The  possessors  of  the  "  Etonian"  are  referred  to  the 
articles  "  Old  Boots,"  "  Reminiscences  of  my  Youth," 
"Yes  and  No,"  "Lovers'  Vows,"  "The  Knight  and 
the  Knave,"  "  On  the  Poems  of  Homer," — compo 
sitions  as  various  in  style  and  subject  as  they  are 
finished  in  execution,  and  surely  displaying  far  more 
of  the  spirit  and  vigor,  than  of  the  immaturity  of 
youth. 

The  work  was  brought  oat  by  Mr.  Charles  Knight, 
the  well-known  publisher,  himself  distinguished  by 
those  literary  talents  and  accomplishments  which  he 
has  subsequently  turned  to  such  valuable  account. 


MEMOIR.  29 

As  the  testimony  of  a  contemporary,  personally  en 
gaged  in  the  transactions  recorded,  no  apology  is 
needed  for  here  introducing  the  following  extract 
from  his  very  interesting  "Autobiography  of  a 
Working  Man,"  to  which  a  reference  has  already 
been  made.  After  speaking  of  the  manifest  delight 
taken  by  Mr.  Blunt  in  doing  what  he  calls  the 
"  editorial  drudgery,"  he  proceeds  to  say :  "  Mr. 
Praed  came  to  the  printing-office  less  frequently. 
But  during  the  ten  months  of  the  life  of  this  Mis 
cellany — which  his  own  productions  were  chiefly 
instrumental  in  raising  to  an  eminence  never  before 
attained  by  schoolboy  genius  similarly  exerted — I 
was  more  and  more  astonished  by  the  unbounded 
fertility  of  his  mind  and  the  readiness  of  his  re 
sources.  He  wrote  under  the  signature  of  'Pere 
grine  Courtenay/  the  President  of  'The  King  of 
Clubs,'  by  whose  members  the  magazine  was  as 
sumed  to  be  conducted.  The  character  of  Peregrine 
Courtenay,  given  in  '  An  Account  of  the  Proceedings 
which  led  to  the  Publication  of  the  "  Etonian,"  '  fur 
nishes  no  satisfactory  idea  of  the  youthful  Winthrop 
Mackworth  Praed,  when  he  is  described  as  one 
'  possessed  of  sound  good  sense,  rather  than  of  bril 
liance  of  genius.'  His  'general  acquirements  and 
universal  information'  are  fitly  recorded,  as  well  as 
his  acquaintance  with  '  the  world  at  large.'  But  the 
kindness  that  lurks  under  sarcasm  ;  the  wisdom  that 
wears  the  mask  of  fun ;  the  half-melancholy  that  is 
veiled  by  levity ; — these  qualities  very  soon  struck 


30  MEMOIR. 

me  as  far  out  of  the  ordinary  indications  of  preco 
cious  talent. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  separate  my  recollections  of  the 
Praed  of  Eton  from  those  of  the  Praed  of  Cam 
bridge.  The  Etonian  of  1820  was  natural  and  un 
affected  in  his  ordinary  talk ;  neither  shy  nor  pre 
suming  ;  proud,  without  a  tinge  of  vanity ;  somewhat 
reserved,  but  ever  courteous  ;  giving  few  indications 
of  the  susceptibility  of  the  poet,  but  ample  evidence 
of  the  laughing  satirist;  a  pale  slight  youth,  who 
had  looked  upon  the  aspects  of  society  with  the 
keen  perception  of  a  clever  manhood  ;  one  who  had, 
moreover,  seen  in  human  life  something  more  than 
follies  to  be  ridiculed  by  the  gay  jest  or  scouted  by 
the  sarcastic  sneer.  I  had  many  opportunities  of 
studying  his  complex  character.  His  writings  then, 
especially  his  poems,  occasionally  exhibited  that  re 
markable  union  of  pathos  with  wit  and  humor  which 
attested  the  originality  of  his  genius,  as  it  was  sub 
sequently  developed  in  maturer  efforts.  In  these 
blended  qualities,  a  superficial  inquirer  might  con 
clude  that  he  was  an  imitator  of  Hood.  But  Hood 
had  written  nothing  that  indicated  his  future  great 
ness,  when  Praed  was  pouring  forth  verse  beneath 
whose  gayety  and  quaintness  might  be  traced  the 
characteristics  which  his  friend  Mr.  Moultrie  de 
scribes  as  the  peculiar  attributes  of  his  nature — 


'  drawing  off  intrusive  eyes 
From  that  intensity  of  human  love, 


MEMOIR.  31 

And  that  most  deep  and  tender  sympathy, 
Close  guarded  in  the  chambers  of  his  heart.' — 

The  Dream  of  Life." 

This  record  of  a  schoolboy's  life,  rich  in  actual 
achievement  as  well  as  in  promise  for  the  future, 
would  be  incomplete  if  a  word  were  not  added  of 
the  part  he  took  in  those  recreations  which  form  no 
unimportant  feature  of  a  schoolboy's  career. 

His  amusements  were  indeed  for  the  most  part  of 
an  intellectual  character.  As  a  chess-player,  he  found 
no  equal  among  boys  of  his  own  age ;  and  it  is  re 
membered  that  he  was  selected,  when  comparatively 
young,  by  a  schoolfellow  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
school — the  celebrated  Dr.  Pusey — as  an  antagonist 
who  could  meet  him  on  equal  terms. 

In  school  theatricals,  then  in  high  vogue  at  Eton, 
he  was  a  distinguished  performer.  He  was  not, 
however,  altogether  a  stranger  to  more  active  sports. 
Though  from  the  delicacy  of  his  constitution  he 
took  no  part  in  the  leading  athletic  exercises  by 
which  Eton  has  always  been  distinguished,  yet  in 
the  variety  of  the  game  of  fives,  then  peculiar  to 
that  school,  an  exercise  in  which  the  dexterity  and 
grace  of  the  player  are  exhibited  to  much  advantage, 
he  was  unrivalled.  He  afterwards  became  an  ex- 
callent  tennis-player.  He  was  also  fond  of  whist, 
and  played  very  well.  It  was  not  till  the  last  year 
of  his  Eton  life  that  he  entered  the  Debating  Society, 
of  which  he  at  once  became  a  distinguished  member. 

One  other  circumstance  remains  to  be  recorded, 


32  MEMOIR. 

of  which  he  was  justly  proud,  and  for  which,  to  em 
ploy  the  language  of  the  valued  friend  by  whom  the 
information  has  been  communicated,  "  the  thanks  of 
Etonians  are  no  less  due  than  for  the  brilliant  legacy 
of  '  The  Etonian'  itself."  By  his  efforts,  with  some 
assistance  from  the  masters  and  other  friends,  the 
"Boys'  Library"  was  founded  at  Eton.  This,  the 
first  institution  of  the  kind,  was  established  in  an 
upper  room  at  the  college  bookseller's,  as  a  society 
to  which  a  few  of  the  senior  boys  might  belong,  and 
to  which  they  might  present  an  occasional  volume 
on  leaving  or  on  revisiting  Eton,  to  testify  their 
sympathy  with  the  studies  of  their  successors.  Un 
der  Dr.  Hawtrey's  superintendence,  and  aided  by 
his  magnificent  liberality,  it  became  what  it  is,  the 
sanctuary  of  learning,  and  the  refuge  of  quiet  to 
many  a  boy  for  whom  a  public  school  would  else 
afford  small  opportunity  of  satisfying  a  desire  for 
knowledge,  beyond  the  mere  routine  of  school-work. 
If  Eton  has  no  longer  to  lament  the  injury  done 
within  her  walls  to  the  organization  of  a  Shelley,  or 
a  Sydney  Walker,  she  owes  it  in  great  measure  to 
the  public  library  which  was  founded  by  Praed.* 

*  At  the  back  of  one  of  the  stalls  in  Eton  College  Chapel, 
erected  by  Mr.  "W.  Mackworth  Praed,  as  a  fitting  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  his  brother  in  that  place,  is  the  following  inscription, 
from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Hawtrey : — 

"  Winthropo  Mackworth  Praed  olim  Coll.  SS.  Trin.  apud  Can- 
tabrigiam  socio  litcris  humanioribus  senatoriis  numeribus  et 
Bibliothecaj  in  puerornm  Etonensium  frtigem  inchoatae  laude 
felicissirnc  ornato  posuit  frater  maximus  natu." 


MEMOIR.  33 

The  summer  of  1821  terminated  Praed's  brilliant 
career  at  Eton,  and  in  the  October  of  the  same  year 
he  commenced  his  residence  as  an  undergraduate  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Since  the  days  of  Can 
ning,  no  Etonian  had  brought  with  him  so  high  a 
reputation,  and  large  expectations  were  formed  with 
respect  to  his  academical  career.  It  was  indeed  soon 
apparent  that  neither  his  time  nor  his  talents  would 
be  devoted  exclusively,  or  even  mainly,  to  the  pur 
suit  of  university  distinction.  His  disposition  was 
eminently  social,  his  company  gladly  welcomed 
wherever  he  was  pleased  to  bestow  it,  whether  by 
his  immediate  contemporaries  or  by  men  of  higher 
standing.  In  a  word,  his  habits  were  by  no  means 
those  of  a  severe  or  regular  student,  while,  as  we 
shall  see  presently,  it  was  not  long  before  he  found 
himself  literary  employment  foreign  to  his  academ 
ical  pursuits,  and  sufficient  of  itself  to  occupy  almost 
any  pen  but  his  own.  For  scientific  studies  he  had  no 
peculiar  liking  or  aptitude,  though  he  acquired  with 
out  difficulty  the  modicum  of  mathematical  knowl 
edge  which  was  then  required  from  the  candidate 
for  classical  honors. 

His  scholarship  was  pre-eminently  of  the  Etonian 
cast,  as  it  was  commonly  exhibited  at  that  day — 
elegant,  refined  and  tasteful,  characterized  by  an 
unconscious,  and,  as  it  were,  living  sympathy  with  the 
graces  and  proprieties  of  diction,  rather  than  by  a 
minute  analysis  of  its  laws,  or  careful  collation  of  its 
facts.  It  must  be  understood,  however,  that  this  is 
2* 


34  MEMOIR. 

spoken  comparatively.  Though  his  scholarship  was 
distinguished  for  its  grace  and  finish  rather  than  by 
its  depth,  it  was  far  indeed  from  superficial,  and  his 
mastery  over  the  resources  of  the  classical  tongues, 
as  displayed  in  his  composition,  was  in  particular 
most  remarkable.  The  following  critical  remarks, 
for  which  the  compiler  of  this  Memoir  is  indebted  to 
a  friend,  are  so  much  to  the  point  that  they  are  given 
in  his  own  words :  "  The  character  of  Praed's  Latin 
and  Greek  verse  is  peculiar.  It  is  the  exact  transla 
tion  for  the  most  part  of  the  same  style  and  diction 
which  he  wielded  with  hardly  greater  ease  in  his 
native  language.  The  same  sparkling  antithesis,  the 
same  minute  elaboration  of  fancy,  whether  employed 
in  depicting  natural  or  mental  objects,  and  the  same 
ever-present  under-current  of  melancholy,  are  found 
in  both.  Of  a  certain  kind  of  Greek,  adapted  to  the 
curious  production  called  at  Cambridge  a  Sapphic 
Ode,  and  of  a  certain  degree  of  Latin  scholarship, 
competent  to  express  all  the  ideas  necessary  to  his 
verse,  but  not  to  sound  the  depths  or  exhaust  the 
capacities  of  the  language,  he  was  master.  His  epi 
grams  are  perhaps  the  most  scholarlike  of  his  pro 
ductions  in  classic  verse ;  but  it  may  be  said  of  them 
all,  what  cannot  be  said  of  many  such  exercises,  that 
they  were  Greek  and  Latin  poetry."* 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  indeed,  that  he  might  have 

*  Specimens  of  these  remarkable  compositions  will  be  found  in 
vol.  ii.  of  this  collection: 


MEMOIR.  35 

attained  still  higher  distinction  as  a  scholar  by  a 
course  of  systematic  study,  for  lie  showed  in  after 
life  both  the  power  of  thorough  investigation  and  a 
sense  of  its  value  ;  but  the  bent  of  his  genius,  and 
perhaps  the  state  of  his  bodily  health,  inclined  him 
to  more  discursive  occupation.  As  it  was,  though  he 
failed  as  a  competitor  for  the  University  Scholar 
ship,*  the  long  and  shining  list  of  his  academic 
honors  bore  full  testimony  not  merely  to  his  extraor 
dinary  talent,  but  to  the  high  character  of  his 
scholastic  attainments. 

In  1822  he  gained  Sir  William  Browne's  medal  for 
the  Greek  Ode,  and  for  the  Epigrams;  in  1823  the 
same  medal  a  second  time  for  the  Greek  Ode,  with 
the  first  prizes  for  English  and  Latin  declamation  in 
his  College.  In  1824  Sir  William  Browne's  medal  a 
second  time  for  Epigrams.  In  1823  and  1824  he 
also  gained  the  Chancellor's  medal  for  English  verse, 
"  Australasia"  being  the  subject  in  the  former  year, 
and  "  Athens"  in  the  latter.  In  the  classical  tripos 
his  name  appeared  third  in  the  list,  a  high  position, 
yet  scarcely  adding  to  the  reputation  which  he 
already  enjoyed.  In  1827  he  was  successful  in  the- 
examination  for  a  Trinity  Fellowship,  and  in  1830 
he  completed  his  University  triumphs  by  gaining  the 
Seatonian  prizes. 

*  He  had  been  second  in  the  examination  for  the  Pitt  Scholar 
ship,  beating  all  competitors  of  his  own  standing,  and  sat  again 
the  following  year  for  the  Battie  Scholarship,  when  it  appears 
that  three  votes  out  of  seven  were  recorded  in  his  favor. 


36  MEMOIR. 

Prize  poems,  even  when  written  by  true  poets,  are 
for  the  most  part  of  ephemeral  interest,  and  do  scant 
justice  to  the  genius  of  their  authors.  It  is  one  thing 
to  perform  a  set  task  with  skill,  another  to  obey 
a  spontaneous  impulse,  and  give  expression  to 
"thoughts  that  voluntary  move  harmonious  num 
bers."  These  exercises  are  properly  intended  as 
tests  and  encouragements  of  academic  scholarship 
and  literary  culture — taste,  judgment,  and  the  art  of 
composition,  with  an  especial  reference  to  established 
models — rather  than  as  opportunities  for  the  display 
of  original  power.  In  Praed's  case,  however,  these 
poems  rise  so  far  above  the  ordinary  level,  and  dis 
play  such  clear  evidence  of  poetic  faculty,  in  him 
always  equal  to  the  occasion,  even  when  exercised  at 
a  disadvantage,  that  they  have  been  deemed  worthy 
of  preservation,  and  will  be  found  in  the  second 
volume  of  this  collection. 

Such  a  career  might  well  be  supposed  to  have 
demanded  all  the  time  and  strength  that  could  be 
given  to  serious  effort,  and  doubtless  it  bore  evi 
dence  to  very  unusual  energy,  and  very  strenuous 
exertion.  It  was  not,  however,  in  the  senate-house 
or  the  schools,  nor  in  the  rigid  course  of  intellectual 
discipline  prescribed  to  the  candidate  for  academic 
distinction,  that  Praed  was  mainly  occupied,  or  that 
his  powers  were  chiefly,  or  perhaps  most  advanta 
geously,  exercised.  Without  undervaluing,  or  pro 
fessing  himself  indifferent  to,  University  honors,  or 
to  College  preferment  and  emoluments,  by  far  the 


MEMOIR.  37 

larger  portion  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  the  exer 
cise  and  improvement  of  his  oratorical  powers,  to  the 
cultivation  of  his  literary  talents,  and  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  social  intercourse,  itself  a  means  of  culture 
of  prime  necessity  as  a  preparation  for  the  more 
active  walks  of  life,  and,  in  the  present  instance,  far 
more  than  commonly  stimulating  and  instructive. 
To  the  circle  in  which  he  moved  belonged  many  who 
became  subsequently  among  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  their  time,  and  who  were  certainly  not  less 
remarkable  in  the  spring  and  promise  of  their 
powers,  than  in  the  maturity  and  fulfilment  of  after 
life.  The  discussions  which  occurred  at  the  frequent 
meetings  of  these  friends — noctes  coenceque  deuin — 
were  conducted  with  a  force  of  argument,  a  readiness 
of  illustration,  and  a  command  of  language  on  the 
part  of  more  than  one  of  the  disputants,  which  the 
compiler  of  this  memoir  has  seldom  heard  equalled, 
surpassed  perhaps  never,  except  among  the  worthies 
of  an  earlier  generation.  It  may  readily  be  supposed 
that  the  war  of  words  was  not  exclusively  aroused 
by  matters  of  taste  or  literary  judgment;  the 
graver  questions  of  social,  political,  and  mental  phi 
losophy  were  debated  with  at  least  equal  interest, 
nnd  with  scarcely  less  ability.  If  the  scale  and 
purpose  of  this  memoir  admitted  of  any  discursion, 
it  might  not  be  without  interest,  or  out  of  place,  to 
speak  more  in  detail  of  the  life  with  which  Praed  was 
then  associated,  and  which  cannot  have  been  without 
influence  on  the  formation  of  his  mind  and  character. 


38  MEMOIR. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in  these  delightful  meetings 
Praed  ever  held  a  foremost  place,  his  social  qualities, 
now  fully  called  out,  not  merely  procuring  him  a 
welcome,  but  enabling  him  to  take  a  lead  on  every 
festive  occasion.  It  was  not,  however,  his  habit  to 
commit  himself  decidedly  and  seriously  to  one  or  the 
other  side  in  the  matters  of  debate — if,  indeed,  he 
had  made  up  his  own  mind,  and  were  not  waiting 
for  further  and  more  mature  reflection.  Even  to 
his  most  intimate  friends  he  did  not  readily  disclose 
his  deeper  thoughts  and  feelings.  If  an  attempt  were 
made  to  involve  him  in  argument,  or  to  extort  from 
him  an  expression  of  opinion,  it  was  promptly  parried 
by  a  playful  witticism,  or  retorted  with  good- 
humored  satire.* 

It  is  probable  that  he  felt  more  keenly  than  most 
others  that  apparent  contradiction  between  the  life 
within,  and  the  outward  conditions  under  which  it 
has  to  be  developed — not  uncommonly  experienced 
by  young  men  of  high  aspirations  and  deep  sensi- 

*  "  Pie  then  a  youth 

Fresh  from  Etonian  discipline,  well  skilled 

In  all  her  classic  craft,  and  therewithal 

Known,  ere  his  sun  in  Granta's  sky  arose, 

In  many  a  boyish  feat,  unlike  a  boy's, 

Of  sparkling  prose  and  verse, — he  graced  our  board 

With  that  rich  vein  of  line  and  subtle  wit — 

That  tone  of  reckless  levity — that  keen 

And  polished  sarcasm — armed  with  which  he  waged 

A  war  of  dexterous  sword-play,  whorein  few 

Encountered,  none  o'ercame  him." 


MEMOIR. 


39 


bility  in  a  sense  of  perplexity  and  dissatisfaction, 
which  under  various  forms  appears  in  their  first 
efforts,  and  modifies  their  behavior  for  a  while.  In 
Praed,  if  the  interpretation  here  offered  be  correct, 
this  showed  itself  in  a  habit  of  banter,  by  which  he 
kept  serious  words  at  bay,  and  seemed  to  drive  away 
all  serious  thoughts.  This  humor,  which  he  long 
continued  to  aifect,  both  in  his  conversation  and  in 
his  writings,  led  to  some  misapprehension  as  to  his 
real  character.  It  was  in  reality  both  earnest  and 
tender  in  a  remarkable  degree.  This  became  more 
apparent  as  he  advanced  in  life ;  yet  his  vein  of 
sportive  irony  remained  unexhausted  to  the  last,  and 
the  impression  produced  upon  his  contemporaries  by 
his  wit,  his  gayety,  and  his  social  talents,  is  inefface 
able. 

The  above  remarks  are  not  offered  merely  in  illus 
tration  of  character,  as  suggested  by  that  cherished 
remembrance,  preserved  by  living  memory,  but  of 
which  a  faint  outline  is  all  that  can  be  transferred  to 
these  pages.  They  have  a  bearing  upon  the  course 
of  Praed's  subsequent  conduct  as  it  became  known  to 
the  world.  Too  much  importance  is  commonly  at 
tached  to  the  expressed  opinions,  and  more  particu 
larly  to  the  political  opinions,  of  very  young  men. 
Thus  they  have  to  bear  the  reproach  of  inconsistency 
if,  as  may  wrell  happen,  they  afterwards  see  occasion 
to  change  their  views.  In  the  case  of  Praed,  this 
spirit  of  retrospective  criticism  was  exercised  with 
more  than  ordinary  severity,  yet  with  less  than  ordi- 


40  MEMOIR. 

nary  justice.     His  early  opinions  were  for  the  most 
part  undecided,  and   merely  tentative  ;    eventually 
they  ripened  into  settled  convictions,  from  which  he 
never  swerved.     Although  it  is  not  the  object  of  this 
memoir  to  enter  with  any  particularity  upon  the  de 
tails  of  Praed's  public  life,  it  must  yet  be  mentioned 
that,  during  the  years  which  he  passed  at  the  Uni 
versity,  he  was  in  active  training  for  the  professional 
and,  as  it  turned  out,  the  political  career  on  which  he 
was  about  to  enter,   and  to  which  his  most  serious 
efforts  were  directed.     The  Union  Debating  Society, 
of  which,  soon  after  his  matriculation,  Praed  became 
a  member,  and  in  which  he  took  a  leading  part,  was 
then  in  its  most  high  and  palmy  state.     It  was  here 
that  Mr.   (afterwards  Lord)  Macaulay  first  became 
known   as  an    orator,   many  of  his  speeches  in  this 
mimic  arena  being  little  inferior  in  rhetorical  skill  or 
in  force  of  argument  to  his  most   splendid  achieve 
ments  in  Parliament.     Scarcely  less  remarkable,  in  a 
different  style,  was  the  clear  and   commanding  elo 
quence  of  Mr.  Charles  Austin,  then  equipping  himself 
for  the  very  high  position  which  he  afterwards  ob 
tained   as  an   advocate    and   parliamentary  lawyer. 
After   these,    amid   a   large   number   of   promising 
speakers,  destined  to  attain  celebrity  either  at  the 
bar  or  in  the  senate,  there  was  no  third  name  that 
could  be  put  in  competition  with  that  of  Praed.    His 
style  of  speaking  was  indeed  wholly  different  from 
that  of  the  distinguished   orators  above  mentioned. 
He  rather  shunned  than  sought  to   carry  away    his 


M  E  M  O  I  R .  4 1 

hearers  by  rhetorical  display.  It  was  his  ambition  to 
make  himself  an  accomplished  debater,  to  excel  in 
reply,  for  which  his  rapid  apprehension,  ready  wit, 
and  racy  diction,  gave  him  singular  advantages.  It 
has  been  said  that  he  was  not  an  "  impassioned 
orator."  Perhaps  not.  He  did  not  care  to  affect  an 
earnestness  which  he  did  not  feel.  He  carried  with 
him  into  the  heat  of  debate  the  sparkling  gayety,  and 
light  careless  manner,  by  which  he  was  generally  dis 
tinguished.  In  after  life,  when  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  the  part  which  he  was  to  take,  and  was  con 
tending  for  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth,  his 
oratory  was  not  merely  serious,  but  on  all  suitable 
occasions  fervid.  His  temperament  was  indeed 
warm  and  excitable,  and  when  his  passions  were 
really  roused,  as  at  a  contested  election,  he  spoke 
with  remarkable  force  and  vehemence. 

It  mny  be  worthy  of  a  passing  notice,  that  in  the 
debates  of  the  Union  Society  both  Macaulay  and 
Praed  commonly  appeared  as  the  advocates  of 
opinions  more  orless  opposed  to  those  of  the  political 
party  with  which  they  were  associated  in  after  life. 
Then  as  afterwards  they  stood  face  to  face  as  oppo 
nents,  but  each  on  the  other  side.  We  are  not,  how 
ever,  to  conclude  that  either  the  one  or  the  other 
made,  or  would  have  cared  to  make,  a  serious  pro 
fession  of  political  principles.  They  were  engaged 
in  sportive  conflict,  following  the  bent  of  their  minds 
at  the  time,  but  without  the  sense  of  public  responsi- 


42  MEMOIR. 

bility,  or  any  direct  object  beyond  the  exercise  of 
their  oratorical  powers. 

We  now  return  to  the  topic  with  which  we  are 
more  immediately  concerned,  and  to  which,  as  it  has 
fallen  out,  contrary  to  his  own  expectations  and  those 
of  his  friends,  a  more  general  as  well  as  a  more  per 
manent  interest  has  become  attached  than  to  his 
political  training, — his  literary  avocations — avoca 
tions  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  term.  He  had  not 
made,  he  was  not  prepared  to  make,  literature  his 
vocation.  It  was  but  an  occasional  diversion,  which 
called  him  away  from  more  serious  pursuits. 

In  the  autumn  of  1822,  about  the  commencement 
of  his  second  year  at  Cambridge,  proposals  were 
made  to  him,  and  through  him  to  some  of  his  most 
distinguished  contemporaries,  by  Mr.  Charles  Knight, 
for  the  establishment  and  support  of  a  new  periodical 
to  be  brought  out  by  the  latter,  then  commencing 
business  in  London  as  a  publisher.  Such  was  the 
origin  of  Knight's  "  Quarterly  Magazine,"  of  which 
the  proprietor  was  himself  the  responsible  editor, — 
Praed,  as  in  the  case  of  the  "  Etonian,"  and  scarcely 
in  an  inferior  degree,  the  animating  and  directing 
spirit. 

Of  this  periodical  a  full  and  interesting  account 
has  recently  been  given  by  Mr.  Knight  himself  in 
his  "  Autobiography,"  already  more  than  once  quo 
ted  ;  a  much  briefer  notice  is  all  that  would  be  con 
sistent  with  the  limits  of  the  present  memoir.  lu  its 
general  character  the  periodical  may  be  regarded  as 


MEMOIR.  43 

a  continuation  of  the  "  Etonian."  Praed  wrote  the 
leading  article,  in  which  the  plan  of  the  work  was 
set  forth,  the  several  contributors  being  introduced 
under  feigned  names.  "  Some  eight  or  ten  of  these 
noins  de  guerre"  as  we  learn  from  Mr.  Knight, 
"  clung  to  the  real  men  during  their  connection  with 
the  Magazine.  Take,"  he  says,  "  as  the  more  dis 
tinguished  examples — 

PEREGRINE  COURTENAY.  .  i 

VYVYAN  JOYEUSE J  •  •  •  WINTIIROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

GERARD  MONTGOMERY    JOHN  MOULTRIE. 

DAVENANT   CECIL  DERWENT  COLERIDGE. 

TRISTRAM  MERTON THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

EDWARD  HASELFOOT WILLIAM  SIDNEY  WALKER. 

HAMILTON  MURRAY  HENRY  MALDEN. 

JOSEPH  HALLER HENRY  NELSON  COLERIDGE." 

To  these  must  be  added  Paterson  Aymer,  by  which 
signature  Mr.  Knight's  own  contributions  were  dis 
tinguished. 

The  work  was  carried  on  with  considerable  vigor, 
and  a  fair  prospect  of  success,  for  three  or  four  num 
bers,  in  which  are  to  be  found  the  whole  of  the 
papers  contributed  by  Praed.  It  was  hardly  to  be 
anticipated  that  a  set  of  undergraduates  would  con 
tinue  their  contributions  with  the  required  regularity, 
or  submit  without  a  murmur  to  the  curtailments  or 
alterations  required,  it  may  well  be,  by  editorial  pru 
dence,  but  not  in  their  opinion  by  any  means  en 
hancing  the  literary  value  of  their  productions. 


44  MEMOIR. 

However  this  may  be,  it  is  pleasant  to  record  that 
the  temporary  disagreement  thus  occasioned  between 
the  editor  and  his  leading  contributor  was  of  very 
short  duration.  "  Within  two  manths,"  to  use  Mr. 
Knight's  own  words,  "Mr.  Praed  spontaneously 
called  upon  me,  and  never  afterwards  lost  an  oppor 
tunity  of  testifying  his  good-will  towards  me."  An 
attempt  was  made  to  revive  the  work,  chiefly  with 
the  assistance  of  another  set  of  contributors.  In 
this  continuation  Praed  took  no  part,  and  accordingly 
the  publication  assumed  an  entirely  new  character. 
Many  articles  of  high  merit  were  contributed.  Mr. 
Macaulay,  Mr.  Maiden,  Mr.  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge, 
and  Mr.  De  Quincey  lent  their  powerful  aid ;  but  it 
had  lost  the  life  and  spirit  to  which  its  previous 
popularity  had  been  owing,  and  after  the  appearance 
of  the  sixth  number  the  work  was  closed,  and 
brought  out  as  a  whole  in  three  octavo  volumes.  It 
is  now  scarce,  and  maybe  pronounced  curious,  many 
of  the  most  interesting  papers,  some  of  them  by 
authors  who  afterwards  attained  high  eminence,  not 
having  been  republished.* 

*  The  following  papers  were  contributed  by  Praed:  "Castle 
Vernon. — Xo.  I.  ;"  "What  you  will. — Xo.  I.  ;"  "  Castle  Yernon 
— Xo.  II. ;"  "My-First  Folly;"  "Points;"  "  Bamasippus ;"  and 
"Leonora;"  together  with  several  enigmas  and  short  poems. 
Here  also  appeared  the  two  first  cantos  of  the  "  Troubadour," 
each  complete  in  itself,  yet  leaving  with  the  reader  the  wish  and 
the  hope  that  more  should  follow.  A  third  canto  was  actually  in 
preparation,  and  far  advanced  towards  completion.  It  is  of  fully 


MEMOIR.  45 

Mr.  Knight,  who  had  already  earned  the  character 
of  a  man  of  letters,  has  since  won  for  himself  the 
more  enviable  distinction  of  a  national  benefactor  by 
his  admirable  series  of  popular  works,  as  well  of 
amusement  as  of  instruction.  He  has  himself  record 
ed  the  fact,  which  he  evidently  remembers  with  pleas 
ure,  that  to  him  the  subject  of  this  memoir  owed  his 
first  introduction  to  the  world  of  letters,  first  at  Eton, 
and  afterwards  at  Cambridge.  In  1826,  after  Praed 
had  left  the  University,  they  were  again  associated 
in  the  production  of  a  periodical  entitled  "  The  Bra 
zen  Head,"  which,  however,  notwithstanding  the 
talent  which  Praed  brought  to  its  support,  failed  to 
attract  public  attention,  and  was  abandoned  after  it 
had  reached  the  third  number.  "  Lidian's  Love," 
with  one  or  two  shorter  poems  republished  in  this 
collection,  first  appeared  in  the  ephemeral  pages  of 
this  miscellany. 

The  following  is  Mr.  Knight's  account  of  this  pub 
lication  :  "  In  the  spring  of  1826,  St.  Leger  and  I — 
at  a  time  when  there  was  little  prospect  of  publishing 
books  with  any  success — thought  that  a  smart  weekly 
sheet  might  have  some  hold  upon  the  London  public, 
who  were  sick  of  all  money  questions,  and  wanted 

equal  merit  with  its  predecessor,  and  is  now  published  for  the 
first  time  as  a  fragment.  It  was  doubtless  intended  for  the  pages 
of  the  "  Quarterly  Magazine."  The  discontinuance  of  Praed's  con 
nection  is  indeed  much  to  be  regretted,  if  only  for  the  abrupt 
conclusion  of  this  charming  poem,  to  which  perhaps  a  fourth  canto 
might  have  been  added. 


46  MEMOIR. 

something  like  fun  in  the  gloomy  season  of  commer 
cial  ruin.  We  went  to  Eton  to  consult  Praed.  He 
entered  most  warmly  and  kindly  into  the  project. 
We  settled  that  '  The  Brazen  Head '  should  be  the 
title  ;  and  that  the  Friar  and  the  Head  should  dis 
course  upon  human  affairs,  chiefly  under  the  manage 
ment  of  our  brilliant  associate.  *  *  *  We  had 
four  weeks  of  this  pleasantry,  and,  which  was  not  an 
advantage,  we  had  nearly  all  the  amusement  to  our 
selves,  for  the  number  of  our  purchasers  was  not 
'  Legion.'  Yet  in  '  The  Brazen  Head '  there  are 
poems  of  Praed  (unknown  from  the  scarcity  of  these 
sixty-four  pages  to  the  Americans,  who  have  printed 
three  editions  of  his  poems)  which  are  every  way 
worthy  of  that  genius  which  his  countrymen  will 
soon  be  permitted  more  fairly  to  appreciate  in  an 
edition  of  all  his  poetical  pieces,  issued  by  an  English 
publisher." 

The  autumn  of  1825  saw  Praed  once  more  estab 
lished  at  Eton,  as  Private  Tutor  to  Lord  Ernest 
Bruce,  a  younger  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Ailesbury. 
The  circumstances  under  which  he  obtained  this 
appointment,  with  his  motives  for  accepting  it,  may 
be  given  in  his  own  words,  extracted  from  a  letter 
written  from  Paris,  where  he  first  joined  his  young 
pupil,  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 

"  About  a  week  before  the  Senate  House  debate, 
Dobree*  called  upon  me  to  know  whether  I  was 

*  The  late  eminent  Greek  scholar. 


MEMOIR.  47 

willing  to  take  a  private  tutorship  to  which  he  had 
the  power  of  recommending  me.  A  negotiation  took 
place  which  ended  satisfactorily.  *  *  *  I  am  to 
be  with  Lord  Ernest  two  or  three  years,  during 
which  period  I  am  to  spend  two  years  in  preparing 
for  a  Trinity  fellowship,  and  the  rest  in  keeping 
terms  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  preparing  for  the  bar. 
With  many  men  the  accepting  of  such  employment 
would  be  a  virtual  resignation  of  all  hopes  of  ad 
vancement  from  an  active  profession  ;  but  for  myself 
I  have  lived,  during  the  last  two  years,  a  life  of  such 
continued  and  violent  excitement,  that  I  believe  a 
period  of  retirement  and  abstraction  will  do  more 
for  me  than  any  thing ;  and  I  have  acquired,  from  a 
chain  of  circumstances  and  feelings  that  I  cannot 
detail,  a  strong  and  enduring  ambition  in  place  of 
the  frivolous  longing  for  temporary  notoriety  which 
is  all  that  you  remember  in  me." 

It  will  be  obvious  from  this  specimen  that  a  far 
more  lively  impression  of  Praed's  mind — his  way  of 
thinking  and  feeling — might  have  been  conveyed 
from  a  connected  series  of  his  familiar  letters  than 
from  any  mere  description,  or  literary  portrait.  But 
from  this  course  the  compiler  of  this  biography  has 
been  withheld,  first  by  the  narrow  limits  within 
which  an  introductory  memoir  must  necessarily  be 
confined,  and  secondly  by  the  character  of  the  letters 
themselves.  They  are  exactly  what  such  letters 
should  be,  written  as  they  were  without  the  slightest 
expectation  of  their  being  preserved ;  records,  for 


4.8  MEMOIR. 

the  most  part,  of  passing  trifles,  interspersed  with 
lively  comments,  not  without  an  occasional  touch  of 
satire,  but  without  a  vestige  of  ill-nature.  Taken  as 
a  whole,  they  represent  clearly  and  faithfully  the 
heart  and  mind  from  which  they  flowed ;  but  the 
scanty  selection  which  could  alone  find  place  in  these 
pages  would  not  merely  be  inadequate  for  this  pur 
pose,  but  might  even  do  the  writer  some  injustice. 
He  was  a  diligent,  as  he  was  a  most  delightful  cor 
respondent,  and  in  every  letter  may  be  found  some 
grace  of  expression,  some  witty  turn  of  thought,  a 
keen  observation  of  men  and  manners ;  but  they 
rarely  touch,  and  never  can  be  said  to  treat,  on  sub 
jects  of  general  interest,  while  the  very  warmth  and 
tenderness  of  feeling  which  constitute  their  peculiar 
charm,  entitle  them  to  the  sacred  privacy  for  which 
they  were  originally  intended. 

The  two  years  which  he  spent  at  Eton,  amid  scenes 
so  much  endeared  to  him  by  the  associations  of  his 
schoolboy  days,  formed  a  pleasant  sequel  to  his 
University  life.  The  system  of  private  tuition,  as 
subsidiary  to  the  regular  instruction  of  the  school, 
had  about  that  period  reached  its  climax,  and  a  num 
ber  of  accomplished  young  men  were  thus  added  to 
the  society  of  the  place.  Of  the  many  distinguished 
scholars  and  clergymen  with  whom  he  was  thus 
brought  into  contact,  none  who  yet  survive  can  have 
forgotten  the  grace  and  amenity  of  his  manner,  the 
charm  of  his  good  humor  and  vivacious  spirits,  the 
heartiness  and  zest  with  which  he  shared  and  pro- 


MEMOIR.  49 

moted  the  social  recreations  with  Avhich  the  labors 
of  tuition  were  relieved.  Those  who  knew  him 
more  intimately  will  remember,  above  all,  his  unva 
rying  kindness  of  heart.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
he  shared  largely  in  the  pleasure  to  which  he  so 
freely  contributed.  It  was  during  this,  his  second 
residence  at  Eton,  that  he  commenced  the  brilliant 
series  of  poetical  contributions  to  the  magazines  and 
annuals  of  the  day  which  fills  a  large  portion  of  the 
succeeding  pages. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  1827  his  connection  with 
the  Marquis  of  Ailesbury  terminated.  Hereupon  he 
took  his  final  leave  of  Eton — with  mingled  feelings. 
He  had  been  for  some  time  anxious  to  bring  his 
tutorial  engagement  to  a  close,  and  enter  upon  the 
more  active  career  to  which  he  felt  himself  called ; 
yet  he  could  not  take  leave  of  so  many  kind  friends 
without  regret,  or  quit  without  a  struggle  a  place  in 
which,  at  two  different  periods  of  his  life,  he  had 
found  so  much  enjoyment.  He  now  established  him 
self  at  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  and  devoted  himself 
earnestly  for  some  years  to  the  professional  study, 
and  subsequently  to  the  practice  of  the  law. 

He  was  called  to  the  bar  at  the  Middle  Temple, 
May  29,  1829.  He  went  the  Norfolk  circuit,  and  was 
rapidly  rising  in  reputation  and  practice.  But  the 
main  current  of  his  mind  had  run  from  the  first  in 
another  direction.  Even  when  engaged  on  the  circuit 
he  would  post  up  to  London  to  attend  a  parliamentary 
debate,  hurrying  back  to  his  legal  engagements  as 


50  M  E  M  O  I  H . 

soon  as  it  was  concluded  ;  and  when,  as  we  shall 
presently  see,  he  obtained  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  his  senatorial  duties  more  than  divided, 
and  eventually  threatened  to  engross,  his  time  and 
thoughts. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  a  turning  point  of  Praed's 
life — the  commencement  of  his  public  career  as  a 
Member  of  Parliament,  of  which,  however,  it  would  be 
foreign  to  the  purpose  of  this  memoir  to  record  more 
than  the  leading  facts.  No  man,  it  is  believed,  ever 
entered  the  service  of  his  country  with  a  more  ardent 
zeal,  or  with  a  deeper  sense  of  duty.  To  this  lie 
devoted,  during  the  whole  remainder  of  his  life,  his 
time,  his  talents,  and  his  strength ;  for  this  he  was 
ready  to  make  any  sacrifice ;  but  he  had  from  the 
first  to  contend  with  adverse  circumstances,  and  with 
failing  health,  and  if  we  would  raise  a  monument 
to  his  patriotic  efforts,  it  must,  alas !  be  a  broken 
column. 

It  has  already  been  intimated  that  his  political  sen 
timents  during  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  so  far  as 
he  had  cared  to  express  them,  had  been  of  a  liberal 
character,  and  his  associations,  for  some  years  after  he 
left  the  University,  had  been  with  the  Liberal  party. 
Thus,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1829  we  find  him 
engaged  as  a  member  of  Mr.  Cavendish's  committee, 
the  Whig  candidate  for  the  representation  of  Cam 
bridge  ;  and  so  late  as  the  autumn  of  the  following 
year,  he  expressed  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  a  very  lively 
satisfaction  in  Mr.  Brougham's  election  for  Yorkshire. 


MEMOIR.  51 

Up  to  this  time,  then,  it  would  seem  that  he  re 
tained  his  sympathies  with  his  old  friends  on  the 
liberal  side  of  politics.  His  appearance,  therefore, 
shortly  afterwards,  as  a  member  of  the  Conservative 
party  in  the  House  of  Commons,  occasioned  consider 
able  surprise.  The  change  was,  however,  more  appa 
rent  than  real;  a  change  in  his  political  associations, 
rather  than  a  change  in  sentiments.  He  had  never 
sided  with  the  extreme  views  of  the  so-called  Radical 
Reformers,  and  to  the  last  he  continued  the  friend  of 
social  progress,  and  was  by  no  means  opposed  to  such 
changes  in  the  constitutional  arrangements  of  the 
country,  as  altered  circumstances  and  the  advance 
ment  of  political  science  appeared  to  require.  He 
was  the  zealous  and  active  friend  of  national  educa 
tion ;  he  was  attached  to  the  doctrines  of  free  trade, 
and  hailed  with  pleasure  the  relief  of  religious  opin 
ion  from  political  restrictions.  But  important  changes 
in  this  direction  had  already  taken  place.  The  Test 
and  Corporation  Act  had  been  rescinded  ;  the  bill  for 
Catholic  Emancipation  had  been  passed ;  and  as,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  leaders  of  Conservative  opinions 
were  becoming  more  and  more  identified  with  liberal 
measures,  so,  on  the  other  hand,  the  reforming  party, 
at  that  critical  period,  were  tending  to  what  he  con 
sidered  to  be  a  revolutionary  extreme.  Such  at  least 
was  the  view  taken  by  Praed,  as  appears  from  his 
own  statement,  conveyed  in  a  letter  to  an  old  college 
friend  (the  Rev.  Charles  Hartshorne),  bearing  date 
January  17,  1831 : 


52  MEMOIR. 

"Your  kind  and  friendly  letter  gratified  me  very 
much,  and  amused  me  not  a'little ;  in  the  first  place  I 
was  delighted  to  find  yourself,  with  many  old  famil 
iars,  welcoming  my  arrival  at  a  goal  I  had  long 
strained  for ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  I  could  not  but 
smile  to  think  of  the  face  you  will  make  when  you 
read  in  the  '  Court  Journal'  that  I  am  to  be  intro 
duced  to  political  life  by  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  or 
in  the  '  Age'  that  I  am  pledged  to  vote  against  the 
Whigs.  There  is  as  much  truth  in  one  as  in  the 
other  ;  none  in  either.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the 
Duke,  and  I  am  not  pledged  to  vote  this  way  or  that 
way,  on  any  one  subject.  I  believe  there  is  no  man 
in  the  House  moro  at  liberty  to  follow  his  own  incli 
nations.  My  old  college  opinions  have,  however, 
been  considerably  modified  by  subsequent  acquaint 
ance  with  the  world,  and  more  observation  of  things 
as  they  are.  I  am  not  going  to  stem  a  torrent,  but 
I  confess  I  should  like  to  confine  its  fury  within  some 
bounds.  I  am  in  no  small  degree  an  alarmist,  and  I 
would  readily  give  a  cart-load  of  abstract  ideas  for  a 
certainty  of  fifty  years'  peace  and  quietness.  So  my 
part  in  political  matters  will  probably  expose  me  to 
all  sorts  of  abuse  for  ratting,  and  so  forth.  I  aban 
don  the  party,  if  ever  I  belonged  to  it,  in  which  my 
friends  and  my  interests  are  both  to  be  found,  and  I 
adopt  one  where  I  can  hope  to  earn  nothing  but  a 
barren  reputation,  and  the  consciousness  of  meaning 
well.  If  all  I  hear  be  correct,  your  friends  the 
Whigs  find  the  machine  going  a  little  too  fast,  and 


MEMOIR.  53 

are  not  sorry  that  some  should  be  found  to  put  011 
the  drag." 

This  interesting  statement,  the  sincerity  of  which 
will  be  questioned  by  no  one  acquainted  with  the 
straightforward  truthfulness  of  the  writer,  needs  no 
comment.  The  nature,  the  extent,  and  the  reasons 
of  the  change,  which  occasioned  so  much  animadver 
sion  at  the  time,  and  which  is  not  yet  forgotten,  are 
clearly  set  before  us.  In  common  with  other  men  of 
note,  by  whom  his  example  was  speedily  followed, 
lie  had  persuaded  himself  that  the  safety  of  the  coun 
try,  and  with  it  the  hope  of  improvement  and  real 
progress,  were  endangered  by  the  haste  and  violence 
displayed  by  the  advocates  of  Parliamentary  Reform 
at  that  stirring  period ;  and,  accordingly,  when  the 
time  for  action  was  come,  his  early  prepossessions 
gave  way.  Doubtless  in  thus  obtaining  a  seat  in  the 
British  Senate  he  satisfied  the  yearnings,  long  cher 
ished,  of  an  honorable  ambition ;  and  while  he  was 
clearly  aware  that  his  worldly  interests  were  rather 
compromised  than  promoted  by  the  step  which  he 
had  taken,  he  was  full  of  hope,  and  the  resolution 
which  it  engenders.  He  entered  Parliament,  as  we 
have  seen,  on  the  most  independent  footing,  which 
he  preserved  to  the  last ;  yet  he  served  the  party  to 
which  he  had  united  himself  with  no  wavering  alle 
giance.  He  devoted  himself  to  the  business  of  the 
House  with  indefatigable  zeal;  and  though  he  had 
an  up-hill  path  to  climb,  associated  as  he  was  with 
an  unpopular  cause,  and  confronted  by  antagonists 


54  MEMOIR. 

of  the  most  brilliant  talent,  yet  he  did  more  than 
enough  to  prove  that,  had  not  his  health  given  way, 
he  would  have  eventually  obtained  high  and  perma 
nent  distinction  as  a  statesman. 

The  first  difficulty  with  which  his  parliamentary 
career  was  commenced  arose  from  the  high  expecta 
tions  which  he  had  to  satisfy.  That  this  anticipation 
was  not  immediately  realized  maybe  explained  partly 
from  the  fact,  that  the  qualities  for  which  he  was 
most  desirous  of  gaining  credit,  and  in  which  he  was 
fitted  to  excel,  required  time  for  their  exercise. 
Though  he  possessed  an  easy  command  of  language, 
he  wanted  the  physical  power  requisite  for  oratorical 
display,  and  rather  sought  to  acquire  distinction  by 
his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  subject,  and  his 
ability  to  deal  with  it  in  detail.  His  maiden  speech 
on  the  cotton  duties,  uninviting  as  the  subject  might 
appear  to  a  young  member,  and  foreign  to  his  previ 
ous  habits  of  thought  and  study,  was,  however,  emi 
nently  successful,  and  created  a  considerable  sensation 
even  among  his  political  opponents.  In  his  next 
effort,  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  with  extreme 
anxiety,  he  was  not  so  fortunate.  He  did  not  again 
address  the  House  till  the  Reform  Bill  came  on  for 
discussion.  The  speech  which  he  delivered  on  this 
occasion  is  still  extant.  It  is  temperate,  fmn,  and 
argumentative,  but  was  delivered  under  most  un 
favorable  circumstances,  and  barely  obtained  a  hear 
ing.  He  was  suffering  at  the  time  from  a  severe  cold, 
and  as  he  did  not  catch  the  Speaker's  eye  till  past 


MEMOIR.  55 

midnight,  he  was  unable  to  command  the  attention 
of  the  House,  which  had  already  exhibited  symp 
toms  of  impatience. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  Praed  for  some  time 
after  this  check  labored  under  a  sense  of  discourage- 

<T5 

ment,  to  which,  however,  he  did  not  give  way.  Ho 
continued  from  time  to  time  to  take  a  part  in  the 
discussions  of  the  House,  and  steadily  rose  in  gene 
ral  estimation,  not  merely  as  a  ready  and  skilful 
debater,  but  for  the  higher  qualities  of  political 
intelligence  and  sagacity.  After  his  death  he  Avas 
designated  as  a  "rising  statesman"  by  Lord  John 
Russell,  in  allusion  to  a  scheme  which  he  had  pro 
pounded,  for  giving  proportional  weight  to  the 
opinions  of  the  minority  in  the  representation  of  the 
country.*  He  was  first  returned  to  Parliament  for 

*  This  project  was  to  the  following  effect:  In  the  Reform  Bill 
of  1831,  it  was  provided  that  certain  counties  should  be  repre 
sented  by  three  members.  The  opportunity  was  thus  afforded 
of  giving  weight  to  the  opinions  of  a  minority  of  voters,  by  re 
stricting  the  number  of  votes  to  be  given  by  each  of  the  electors 
to  two  only ;  by  which  certain  anomalies  of  representation — 
greater  then,  when  party  spirit  was  high,  than  now,  when  such 
irregularities  have  partially  corrected  themselves  under  the  influ 
ence  of  time  and  the  spirit  of  compromise — were  to  some  extent 
remedied  and  avoided.  The  scheme  was  proposed  in  the  form 
of  an  amendment  in  committee,  and  received  but  slight  attention 
at  the  time ;  but  it  has  since,  more  than  once,  been  noticed  with 
praise  by  the  philosophical  observers  of  the  working  of  our  parlia 
mentary  constitution. 

Another  amendment  was  moved  by  Praed  to  the  Reform  Bill 


5"  MEMOIR. 

the  borough  of  St.  Germains,  in  November,  1830, 
and  again  for  the  same  place  at  the  general  election 
of  1831.  In  1832,  after  the  passing  of  the  Refonii 
Bill,  by  which  St.  Germains  had  lost  its  franchise,  he 
contested  the  borough  of  St.  Ives,  in  Cornwall, 
where  his  relative,  Mr.  Praed  of  Trevetho\v,  a  coun 
try  seat  in  the  neighborhood,  possessed  considerable 
influence.  Party  spirit,  however,  ran  high  at  the 
time,  and  notwithstanding  a  vigorous  canvass,  in 
which  his  oratorical  powers  were  displayed  to  great 
advantage,  he  lost  his  election ;  and  during  the  in 
terim  between  this  and  the  following  Parliament,  he 
resumed  his  practice  at  the  bar  with  his  wonted 
vigor  and  w^ith  no  inconsiderable  success.  But  his 
mind  could  not  be  turned  aside  from  the  active 
struggle  of  political  life,  and  though  no  longer  in 
Parliament,  he  was  present  night  after  night  at  its 
debates,  as  an  interested  spectator.  To  this  period 
are  to  be  referred  many  of  the  political  squibs,  still 
remembered  as  the  productions  of  his  pen,  though 
published  anonymously.  Of  this  species  of  compo 
sition  he  was  a  consummate  master,  and  though  it 
has  not  been  thought  expedient  to  incorporate  these 

of  1832,  which,  if  carried,  would  have  forestalled  the  measure 
upon  which  the  last  Derby  Government  practically  staked  its 
existence.  It  was,  "that  freeholds  situate  within  boroughs  should 
in  all  cases  confer  votes  for  the  borough,  and  not  for  the  county." 
The  proposal  was  of  course  rejected;  but  the  speech  in  which  it 
was  advocated  contains  a  store  of  valuable  hints  as  to  the  prin 
cipal  defects  in  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  and  fully  deserves  con 
sideration  by  future  reformers. 


MEMOIR. 


monuments  of  party  strife  in  the  present  edition  of 
his  poems,  if  indeed  the  time  be  yet  fully  come  for 
their  reappearance,  it  is  not  improbable  that  they 
may  hereafter  be  reproduced  in  a  collected  form,  as 
revised  by  the  author,  by  whom  they  were  printed 
in  a  small  volume  for  private  circulation. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  again  enabled  to 
compete  as  an  active  candidate  for  parliamentary 
honors.  In  1834  he  was  returned,  with  Mr.  T. 
Baring,  for  Yarmouth.  He  always  regarded  his  suc 
cess  on  this  occasion  as  a  signal  triumph,  which, 
however,  was  dearly  purchased.  The  exertions  which 
he  used  to  secure  his  seat  overtasked  the  powers  of 
his  constitution,  and,  it  is  believed,  first  developed,  if 
they  did  not  lay  the  foundation,  of  that  fatal  disease 
to  which  a  few  years  afterwards  he  fell  a  victim.  But 
his  energy  was  irrepressible;  and  now  his  merit  was 
publicly  recognized  by  the  leaders  of  his  party.  He 
had  already  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Dnke  of 
Wellington,  to  whom,  as  he  truly  said,  he  was  person 
ally  unknown  at  his  first  entrance  into  political  life. 
In  the  year  1833  the  Duke  became  the  subject  of  a 
malicious  attack  in  the  newspapers,  connected  with  the 
distribution  of  certain  places  of  small  value  which  had 
been  bestowed  upon  deserving  officers  of  long  service 
in  the  field.  At  this  time  Praed  was  a  regular  con 
tributor  to  the  "  Morning  Post."  The  Duke  sent  for 
him,  intrusted  him  with  the  facts  upon  which  he 
rested  his  defence,  and  requested  him  to  undertake 
an  answer  to  the  attacks  of  the  Liberal  papers  in  the 
3* 


58  MEMOIR. 

columns  of  the  "  Post."  The  defence  was  considered 
complete  and  satisfactory,  and  the  acquaintance  thus 
formed  between  the  statesman  and  the  young  writer 
was  further  extended  during  a  visit  to  Walmer  Castle, 
of  which  Praed  writes  the  following  account,  dated 
Aylesbury,  October  15,  1833  : — "My  time  at  Walmer 
Castle  was  spent  very  agreeably.  On  the  first  morn 
ing  I  had  a  long  interview  with  his  Grace  on  l  busi 
ness,'  in  which  he  opened  to  me  all  his  views,  personal 
and  political,  with  a  frankness  which  was  most  nat 
tering  and  most  delightful.  To  be  put  on  terms  of 
the  most  intimate  confidence  with  the  greatest  man 
of  his  time,  was  what  indeed  I  should  scarcely  have 
dreamed  of  a  few  years  ago.  He  seemed  at  least  to 
keep  nothing  from  me;  his  judgment  of  measures, 
and  his  opinions  of  men ;  his  fears,  which  are  mani 
fold,  and  his  hopes,  Avhich  are  few  or  none,  were  all 
expounded.  I  can  scarcely  be  too  proud  of  such  a 
reception,  or  too  much  pleased  with  the  prospect  it 
affords  of  future  intercourse  with  such  a  man.  It  was 
made  the  more  satisfactory  to  me  from  the  candor 
with  which  he  spoke  of  the  permanent  exclusion  of 
the  Tories  from  political  power — a  promise  which  he 
would  scarcely  have  held  out  to  an  adherent  of  whose 
motives  he  thought  meanly." 

This  "  promise"  was  not  however  literally  or  imme 
diately  fulfilled  ;  and  under  the  ministry  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  1834-1835,  Praed  held  the  office  of  Secretary 
to  the  Board  of  Control,  the  terms  in  which  the  offer 
was  made  to  him  being  scarcely  less  gratifying  than 


MEMOIR.  59 

the  appointment  itself.     The  following  is  Sir  Robert 
Peel's  letter  on  this  occasion :  — 

"WHITEHALL,  Dec.  13,  1834. 
"My  DEAE  SIR, 

u  Your  name  has  occurred  to  me  among  the 
first  in  my  consideration  of  those  appointments  which, 
in  point  of  fact  (whatever  their  name  or  rank  in  point 
of  precedence  may  be),  are  of  the  first  importance 
from  the  nature  of  the  duties  attached  to  them. 
Among  those  there  is  not  one  affording  greater  op 
portunities  of  distinction,  or  requiring  more  ability 
and  prudence,  than  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the 
Board  of  Control,  when  the  Head  of  that  Board  is  in 
the  House  of  Lords. 

"I  do  not  make  the  offer  of  this  appointment  to 
you  without  previous  communication  with  Lord 
Ellenborough,  the  future  President,  and  having  ascer 
tained  his  entire  concurrence  in  my  opinion  as  to 
your  high  qualifications  for  it. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  sir, 

"  Most  faithfully  yours, 

u  ROEEBT  PEEL. 
"W.  MACKWOKTII  PEAED,  ESQ., 
Great  Yarmouth" 

In  1837,  having  received  an  invitation  from  th;> 
Aylesbury  electors,  he  was  induced  by  prudential 
considerations  to  retire  from  Yarmouth,  when  he  was 
presented  with  a  silver  cup  by  the  Conservative 
electors  of  that  borough,  with  whom  he  had  rendered 


00  MEMOIR. 

himself  extremely  popular,  in  recognition  of  his  ser 
vices  as  their  representative.  At  Aylesbury  he  gained 
his  election,  and  was  Member  for  that  borough  at  the 
time  of  his  death. 

It  only  remains  to  add,  that  during  the  latter  years 
of  his  life  he  held  the  office  of  Deputy  High  Steward 
of  the  University  of  Cambridge.  To  this  most  appro 
priate  distinction  he  attached  a  peculiar  value.  It 
renewed  a  connection  of  which  he  was  justly  proud, 
and  which  he  was  always  desirous  to  preserve  and 
cherish.  If,  indeed,  his  life  had  been  spared,  and  the 
opportunity  had  presented  itself,  it  is  not  impossible 
that  he  might  have  offered  himself  as  a  candidate 
for  the  representation  of  that  seat  of  learning.  Such 
at  least  is  known  to  have  been  his  own  wish,  and  the 
hope  of  his  friends. 

In  the  party  conflicts  in  which  Praed  engaged  wi  h 
so  much  zeal,  and  in  which  it  will  appear,  even  from 
this  brief  summary,  that  he  played  no  undistinguished 
part,  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  avoid  all  col 
lision  with  his  former  associates,  who  sat  with  him  in 
Parliament,  but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  House. 
Rarely,  indeed,  did  any  approach  to  personal  animos 
ity  mingle  with  the  strife  ;  and  it  would  be  worse  than 
idle,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  to  recall  the 
expressions  of  transient  irritation  which  he  may  on 
any  occasion  have  had  to  encounter  in  the  heat  of  de 
bate.  To  his  friends,  of  whatever  political  opinion, 
he  remained  to  the  last  what  he  had-  been  from  the 
first;  and  the  affectionate  admiration  with  which  lie 


MEMOIR.  61 

is  remembered  by  his   surviving    contemporaries  is 
without  alloy. 

But  one  other  incident  connected  with  his  public 
life  remains  to  be  recorded.  In  1838  lie  was  enga 
ged,  with  Mr.  T.  D.  Acland,  Mr.  Malhison,  Mr.  H. 
X.  Coleridge,  and  other  friends,  in  and  out  of  Par 
liament,  in  preparing  a  scheme  of  education  for  the 
children  of  the  laboring  classes,  to  be  carried  out 
under  the  auspices  of  the  National  Society,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  religious  requirements  of  the  country. 
This  scheme,  which  included  an  effectual  provision  for 
the  instruction  and  training  of  the  National  School 
master,  was  ably  seconded,  on  the  part  of  the  Govern 
ment,  by  Sir  James  Kaye  Shuttle  worth,  and  remains  a 
monument — it  is  to  be  hoped  an  enduring  monument 
— of  the  enlightened  zeal  of  its  authors  and  promoters. 

On  PrnecVs  domestic  life  we  must,  for  obvious 
reasons,  touch  lightly.  In  the  opening  pages  of  this 
memoir  it  has  been  mentioned  that  on  the  death  of  his 
mother  he  was  indebted  to  the  care  of  an  elder  sister. 
Her  decease,  which  took  place  in  1830,  made  a  deep 
impression  on  his  mind,  and  contributed,  with  the 
advance  of  years  nnd  the  experience  of  life,  to  that 
greater  earnestness  and  seriousness  of  character 
which  marked  his  later  years.  The  greater  part  of 
that  year  was  passed  in  the  most  tender  attendance 
in  the  sick-room,  and  afterwards  in  endeavoring  to 
cheer  the  home  made  desolate  by  her  removal.  He 
gave  up  the  Summer  Circuit  that  he  might  devote 
himself  more  fully  to  this  object ;  and  the  unselfish- 


62  MEMOIR. 

ness  with  which  he  set  aside  his  own  stirring  occu 
pations  for  the  claims  of  family  affection,  can  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  shared  the  sorrow  and 
partook  of  the  sympathy. 

In  1835  he  lost  his  father,  to  whom  he  wTas  affection 
ately  and  reverentially  attached,  and  whose  memory 
deserves  on  every  account  to  be  handed  down  with  that 
of  the  son  whose  mind  he  did  so  much  to  form,  and 
w^ho  profited  so  largely  by  his  precept  and  example. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  his  legal  and  par 
liamentary  engagements  left  him  little  time  for  lit 
erary  pursuits.  He  continued,  however,  from  time 
to  time  to  contribute  poems  to  the  "  Literary  Sou 
venir"  and  other  periodicals,  from  which  they  have 
now  been  collected.  His  political  squibs  have  been 
already  mentioned,  and,  besides  these,  articles  from 
his  pen  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  "Morning 
Post."  To  the  last  his  poetical  talent  was  exercised 
with  no  decrease  of  power,  and  with  even  increasing 
refinement  of  taste,  whether  for  the  amusement  of 
his  friends,  in  pieces  of  playful  fancy,  or  in  the  tender 
service  of  family  affection ;  to  the  last — when  sick 
ness  had  at  length  completely  incapacitated  him  from 
every  other  occupation ;  and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to 
repress  a  feeling  of  regret  that  he  had  not  sooner 
withdrawn  from  the  toils  and  excitement,  whether 
of  the  bar  or  the  senate,  before  it  was  too  late,  and 
devoted  the  full  power  of  his  mind  to  that  genial  art 
in  which  his  success  was  incontestable,  and  to  which, 
as  it  is,  he  owes  his  permanent  reputation. 


MEMOIR.  63 

But  it  was  not  so  to  be.  The  uncontrollable 
energy  of  his  nature  carried  him  on  year  after  year, 
while  the  disease  was  yet  only  nascent ;  and  month 
after  month,  long  after  he  had  received  unmistakable 
warning  of  its  increasing  growth. 

But  there  is  a  bright  side  to  this  picture.  His 
latter  years,  amid  all  the  trials  which  he  had  to  pass 
through,  aggravated  as  they  were  by  bodily  infirmity 
and  suffering,  were  cheered  and  solaced  by  the  best 
earthly  consolation — that  of  the  domestic  hearth. 
In  the  summer  of  1835,  while  his  hopes  of  public  ad 
vancement  were  yet  high,  and  no  suspicion  of  the 
uncertainty  of  his  bodily  health  had  dawned  upon  his 
mind,  he  was  happily  united  in  marriage  to  Helen, 
daughter  of  George  Bogle,  Esq.,  a  lady  to  whose 
virtues  and  accomplishments  a  respectful  allusion  is 
all  that  can  here  be  permitted.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
during  the  four  years  of  their  companionship,  she 
devoted  to  her  husband,  whose  high  qualities,  intel 
lectual  and  moral,  she  was  every  way  qualified  to 
appreciate,  all  the  resources  of  the  most  assiduous 
affection  ;  and  that,  during  the  four-and-twenty  years 
of  her  widowhood,  she  never  ceased  to  mourn  his 
loss.  Her  own  decease  occurred  early  in  the  autumn, 
of  the  past  year. 

Little  remains  to  be  told.  The  winter  of  1838-9 
was  spent  by  Praed,  with  his  wife  and  two  infant 
daughters,  at  St.  Leonard's-on-Sea,  when  aggravated 
symptoms  of  the  disorder  under  which  he  had  in 
reality  long  labored,  and  in  particular  an  increased 


64  MEMOIR. 

difficulty  of  breathing  when  taking  exercise,  began 
to  force  themselves  upon  his  attention.  Nevertheless, 
upon  his  return  to  London  for  the  meeting  of  Par 
liament,  in  the  February  of  1839,  his  general  health 
appeared  to  have  improved,  when  he  entered  upon 
the  discharge  of  his  public  duties  with  undiminished 
energy,  neither  entertaining  himself,  nor,  it  would 
appear,  leading  those  about  him  to  entertain,  any  un 
usual  alarm  for  the  probable  consequences  of  his 
exertions.  It  was  not  till  the  termination  of  the 
debate  on  the  Corn  Laws,  winch  lasted  seven  nights, 
that  any  serious  apprehensions  were  entertained. 
Dr.  James  Johnson,  who  had  attended  him  in  the 
earlier  stages  of  his  illness,  was  now  called  in;  but 
though  he  appeared,  on  the  cessation  of  the  easterly 
wind — to  the  long  continuance  of  which  he  had 
attributed  the  increase  of  his  ailments — to  rally  a 
little,  no  real  improvement  took  place.  Still  he 
remained  full  of  hope  and  resolution  ;  and,  taking- 
advantage  of  an  adjournment  of  Parliament,  con 
sequent  upon  a  transient  change  of  Government  in 
the  May  of  that  year,  paid  a  visit  to  Cambridge  in 
his  official  capacity  of  Deputy  High  Steward.  The 
letter  from  which  the  following  is  taken  is  dated  the 
29th  of  May,  the  last  which  the  writer  of  this  Memoir 
received  from  his  beloved  friend: — "Helen  went 
with  me  to  Cambridge  on  the  17th  instant,  where  I 
was  to  have  held  my  court  last  week ;  but  to  my  amnze- 
ment  I  found  my  supposed  sinecure  up  to  its  chin  in 
points  of  disputed  jurisdiction,  so  that  I  was  forced 


MEMOIR.  65 

to  dismiss  my  Leet  Jury  re  infectd,  and  return  to 
town  to  study  opinions  of  counsel,  and  refer  the 
matters  in  discussion,  or  at  least  my  cause  there- 
anent,  to  the  attention  of  the  Vice-Chancellor  and 
Heads,  whose  attention  to  the  subject  I  took  care  to 
bespeak.  We  might  have  passed  our  wTeek's  holiday 
agreeably  enough  at  Cambridge,  Helen  having  never 
visited  it  before,  but  for  the  severity  of  the  weather, 
which  from  Tuesday  the  21st  to  Saturday  the  25th 
was  winter  in  bleak  earnest.  I  could  do  little  in  the 
way  of  lionizing.  Helen,  however,  saw  much  of  what 
is  sight-worthy.  The  hospitalities  of  our  old  friends 
in  Trinity  and  elsewhere  were  of  course  boundless." 
The  buoyancy  of  his  mind,  and  the  interest  which 
he  continued  to  take  in  public  affairs,  appears  from 
what  follows.  "  This  morning,  with  your  letter,  I 
duly  received  your  four  petitions,  which  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  present.  Our  London  meeting  on  the 
Education  question  was  magnificent."  In  fact,  he 
continued,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances  of  his 
friends,  to  attend  in  his  place  in  Parliament  till  nearly 
the  middle  of  June,  when  he  paired  off  with  Lord 
Arundel  for  the  rest  of  the  session.  This  step  he 
was  at  length  induced  to  take  by  the  advice  of  Dr. 
Paris,  to  whom  his  case  had  been  referred.  On  the 
1 7th  of  June,  he  was  removed  to  Sudbury  Grove,  a 
villa  in  the  neighborhood  of  Harrow,  kindly  placed 
at  his  disposal  by  a  friend.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
hope  even  for  a  partial  restoration.  He  grew  rapidly 
worse,  and  his  return  to  London  was  not  accom 
plished  without  difficulty. 


66  MEMOIR. 

He  entered  into  his  rest  on  the  15th  of  July,  1839, 
at  his  own  house  in  Chester  Square,  and  was  interred, 
on  the  23d  of  the  same  month,  in  the  cemetery  at 
Kensal  Green,  his  funeral  being  attended  by  his 
widow,  his  two  brothers,  and  a  considerable  number 
of  his  relations  and  private  friends ;  and  among 
these,  by  the  writer  of  the  present  sketch,  who  had 
also  the  melancholy  but  valued  privilege  of  attend 
ing  him  in  his  last  hours. 

He  left  two  daughters,  Helen  Adeline  Mackworth, 
and  Elizabeth  Lillian  Mackworth,  under  whose 
authority  the  present  collection  of  their  father's 
poems  is  given  to  the  public. 

A  monumental  Tablet  at  Kensal  Green  bears  the 
following  inscription  from  the  pen  of  the  Reverend 
James  Hildyard : — 

JUXTA  HOC  MARMOR  CONDITUM  EST 
QUICQUTD  MORTALE  FUIT  EGREGII  VIRI  ET  SENATORIS, 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED,  A.  M., 

COLL.  SS.  TRIN.  CANTAB.  OLIM    SOCTI  :    E.JUSDEMQUE  ACADEMIC    PROSENESCALLI 

TER  AD    CURIAM  BRITANNICAM    A   TRIBUS   MTTNICIPIIS   DELEGATI, 

ALIISQUE   TUM    PRIVATIS   TUM   PUBLIOIS   IIONORIBU8    INSIGNITI. 

NAT.    VII.    KAL.    SEXTIL.    MDCCCII.       OIUIT    ID.    .TI'L.    MUCCCXXXIX. 

JUTENTUTEM  OPTIMIS    LITTERIS,    ^ETATEM   MATURIOREM   REIPITBLIO.C, 

UNIVERSAM    VITAM   INGENIU.M    VIRES    ELOQUENTIAM    PATRI^    DICAVIT. 

RARO   SIMITL   CONJUNCT.E   SL'NT   TOT   NATURE  DOTES, 

TAM    DOCTRIN.E    ARTIUMQL'E    LIBERALIU.M    8UI!SII)I1S    EXCTLTj:  : 

RAKISSIME   TAM   GENERIS   IIUMANI    UTILITATI   TAM    CIIRISTI  IIONORI    SUB.TECT.E. 

IMMATURA   EIIEU    MORTE   CORREPTUS   TRISTE    8UI   AMICI8   DESIDER1UM, 

AH    QTJANTO    TRISTIUS    CONJtJGI    DILECTISSIM^    AMANTISSIM^    RELKJUIT. 

ILLA   SICUT  HOC  TESTIMONIO   DEFLETAM   MEMORIAM   PIE   PROSECUTA   EST, 

ITA   GRATO    TAMEN  ANIMO    DEUM    DATOREM, 

8UBMISSO   ADEMPTOREM    VENERATUR. 


MEMOIR.  67 

Beneath  a  marble  bust  in  the  possession  of  his 
widow  were  engraved  the  following  lines  by  the 
Rev.  John  Moultrie,  a  last  tribute  paid  by  his  valued 
friend  and  brother-poet  to  the  memory  of  Winthrop 
Mack  worth  Praed. 

Not  that  in  him,  whom  these  poor  praises  wrong, 
G-ifts,  rare  themselves,  in  rarest  union  dwelt ; 

Not  that,  revealed  through  eloquence  and  song, 

In  him  the  Bard  and  Statesman  breathed  and  felt; — 

Not  that  his  nature,  graciously  endued 

With  feelings  and  affections  pure  and  high, 
Was  purged  from  worldly  taint,  and  self-subdued, 

Till  soul  o'er  sense  gained  perfect  mastery  ; 

Not  for  this  only  we  lament  his  loss, — 

Not  for  this  chiefly  we  account  him  blest ; 
But  that  all  this  he  cast  beneath  the  Cross, 

Content  for  Christ  to  live,  in  Christ  to  rest. 


TALES. 


I- 


^^_r- 

LILLIAN. 

A     FAIKY     TALE. 

THE  reader  is  requested  to  believe  that  the  following  statement 
is  literally  true;  because  the  writer  is  well  aware  that  the  cir 
cumstances  under  which  LILLIAN  was  composed  are  the  only 
source  of  its  merits,  and  the  only  apology  for  its  faults. 

At  a  small  party  at  Cambridge  some  malicious  belles  endeav 
ored  to  confound  their  sonneteering  friends,  by  setting  unin 
telligible  and  inexplicable  subjects  for  the  exercise  of  their 
poetical  talents.  Among  many  others,  the  thesis  was  given  out 
which  is  the  motto  of  LILLIAN — 

•  "A  dragon's  tail  is  flayed  to  warm 
A  headless  maiden's  heart," 

and  the  following  poem  was  an  attempt  to  explain  the  riddle. 

The  partiality  with  which  it  has  been  honored  in  manu 
script,  and  the  frequent  applications  which  have  been  made  to 
the  author  for  copies,  must  be  his  excuse  for  sending  it  to  the 
press. 

It  was  written,  however,  with  the  sole  view  of  amusing  the 
friends  in  whose  circle  the  idea  originated;  and  to  them,  with 
all  due  humility  and  devotion,  it  is  inscribed. 

TPJXITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE, 
October  26,  1822. 


POEMS 


BY 


WINTMOP  MACKWORTH  PRAED, 


LILLIAN. 

"  A  dragon's  tail  is  flayed  to  warm 
A  headless  maiden's  heart." — Miss  . 

"  And  he's  cleckit  this  great  muckle  bird  out  o'  this  weo  egg  I 
he  could  wile  the  very  flounders  out  o'  the  Frith !" 

Mr.  Saddletree. 

CANTO   I. 

THERE  was  a  dragon  in  Arthur's  time, 

When  dragons  and  griffins  were  voted  "  prime," 

Of  monstrous  reputation : 
Up  and  down,  and  far  and  wide, 
He  roamed  about  in  his  scaly  pride ; 
And  ever,  at  morn  and  eventide, 
He  made  such  rivers  of  blood  to  run 
As  shocked  the  sight  of  the  blushing  sun, 

And  deluged  half  the  nation. 
4 


74  LILLIAN. 

It  was  a  pretty  monster,  too, 

With  a  crimson  head,  and  a  body  blue, 

And  wings  of  a  warm  and  delicate  hue, 

Like  the  glow  of  a  deep  carnation : 
And  the  terrible  tail  that  lay  behind, 
Reached  out  so  far  as  it  twisted  and  twined, 

That  a  couple  of  dwarfs,  of  wondrous  strength, 
Bore,  when  he  travelled,  its  horrible  length, 
Like  a  Duke's  at  the  coronation. 

His  mouth  had  lost  one  ivory  tooth, 
Or  the  dragon  had  been,  in  very  sooth, 

No  insignificant  charmer ; 
And  that — alas !  he  had  ruined  it, 
When  on  new-year's  day,  in  a  hungry  fit, 
He  swallowed  a  tough  and  a  terrible  bit — 
Sir  Lob,  in  his  brazen  armor. 
Swift  and  light  were  his  steps  on  the  ground, 
Strong  and  smooth  was  his  hide  around, 
For  the  weapons  whicli  the  peasants  flung 
Ever  unfelt  or  unheeded  rung, 

Arrow,  and  stone,  and  spear, 
As  snow  o'er  Cynthia's  window  flits, 
Or  raillery  of  twenty  wits 

On  a  fool's  unshrinking  ear. 

In  many  a  battle  the  beast  had  been, 

Many  a  blow  he  had  felt  and  given : 
Sir  Digore  came  with  a  menacing  mien, 


LILLIAN.  75 

But  he  sent  Sir  Digore  straight  to  Heaven ; 
Stiff  and  stour  were  the  arms  he  wore, 

Huge  the  sword  he  was  wont  to  clasp ; 
But  the  sword  was  little,  the  armor  brittle, 

Locked  in  the  coil  of  the  dragon's  grasp. 

He  came  on  Sir  Florice  of  Sesseny  Land, 

Pretty  Sir  Florice  from  over  the  sea, 
And    smashed    him    all   as   he   stepped   on   the 
sand, 

Cracking  his  head  like  a  nut  from  the  tree. 
No  one  till  now,  had  found,  I  trow, 

Any  thing  good  in  the  scented  youth, 
Who   had   taken  much   pains  to   be   rid  of   his 
brains, 

Before  they  were  sought  by  the  dragon's  tooth. 

He  came  on  the  Sheriff  of  Hereford, 

As  he  sat  him  down  to  his  Sunday  dinner ; 
And  the  Sheriff  he  spoke  but  this  brief  word  : 

"  St.  Francis,  be  good  to  a  corpulent  sinner !" 
Fat  was  he,  as  a  Sheriff  might  be, 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  tip  of  his  toe ; 
But  the  Sheriff  was  small,  or  nothing  at  all, 

When  put  in  the  jaws  of  the  dragon  foe. 

He  came  on  the  Abbot  of  Arnondale, 

As  he  kneeled  him  down  to  his  morning  devotion ; 


76  LILLIAN  . 

But  the  dragon  he  shuddered,  and  tunied  his  tail 
About,  "  with  a  short  uneasy  motion." 

Iron  and  steel,  for  an  early  meal, 

He  stomached  with  ease,  or  the  Muse  is  a  liar ; 

But  out  of  all  question,  he  failed  in  digestion, 
If  ever  he  ventured  to  swallow  a  friar ! 

Monstrous  brute  ! — his  dread  renown 

Made  whispers  and  terrors  in  country  and  town  ; 

Nothing  was  babbled  by  boor  or  knight, 

But  tales  of  his  civic  appetite. 

At  last,  as  after  dinner  he  lay, 

Hid  from  the  heat  of  the  solar  ray, 

By  boughs  that  had  woven  an  arbor  shady, 

He  chanced  to  fall  in  with  the  Headless  Lady. 

Headless  !  alas !  't  was  a  piteous  gibe  ; 

I'll  drink  Aganippe,  and  then  describe. 

Her  father  had  been  a  stout  yeoman, 
Fond  of  his  jest  and  fond  of  his  can, 

But  never  over-wise  ; 

And  once,  when  his  cups  had  been  many  and  deep, 
He  met  with  a  dragon  fast  asleep, 

'T  was  a  fairy  in  disguise  : 
In  a  dragon's  form  she  had  ridden  the  storm, 

The  realm  of  the  sky  invading ; 
Sir  Graham e's  ship  was  stout  and  fast. 
But  the  fairy  came  on  the  rushing  blast, 


LILLIAN.  77 

And  shivered  the  sails,  and  shivered  the  mast, 
And  down  went  the  gallant  ship  at  last, 

With  all  the  crew  and  lading. 
And  the  fay  laughed  out  to  see  the  rout, 

As  the  last  dim  hope  was  fading ; 
And  this  she  had  done  in  a  love  of  fun, 

And  a  love  of  masquerading. 
She  lay  that  night  in  a  sunny  vale, 
And  the  yeoman  found  her  sleeping  ; 
Fiercely  he  smote  her  glittering  tail, 
But  oh !  his  courage  began  to  fail, 

When  the  fairy  rose  all  weeping. 

"  Thou  hast  lopped,"  she  said,  "  beshrew  thine  hand  ! — 
The  fairest  foot  in  fairy  land  ! 

"  Thou  hast  an  infant  in  thine  home  ! 
Never  to  her  shall  reason  come, 

For  weeping  or  for  wail, 
Till  she  shall  ride  with  a  fearless  face 

On  a  living  dragon's  scale, 
And  fondly  clasp  to  her  heart's  embrace 

A  living  dragon's  tail." 
The  fairy's  form  from  his  shuddering  sig'it 
Flowed  away  in  a  stream  of  light. 

Disconsolate  that  youth  departed, 

Disconsolate  and  poor ; 
And  wended,  chill  and  broken-hearted. 

To  his  cottage  on  the  moor  ; 


8  L  ILL  I  AW. 

Sadly  and  silently  he  knelt 

His  lonely  hearth  beside  ; 
Alas  !  how  desolate  he  felt 

As  he  hid  his  face  and  cried. 
The  cradle  where  the  babe  was  laid 

Stood  in  its  own  dear  nook, 
But  long — how  long!  he  knelt,  and  prayed, 

And  did  not  dare  to  look. 
He  looked  at  last ;  his  joy  was  there, 
And  slumbering  with  that  placid  air 
Which  only  babes  and  angels  wear. 
Over  the  cradle  he  leaned  his  head ; 
The  cheek  was  warm,  and  the  lip  was  red : 
And  he. felt,  he  felt,  as  he  saw  her  lie, 
A  hope — which  was  a  mockery. 
The  babe  unclosed  her  eye's  pale  lid  : — 
Why  doth  he  start  from  the  sight  it  hid  ? 
He  had  seen  in  the  dim  and  fitful  ray, 
That  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  gone  away ! 
Sigh  nor  prayer  he  uttered  there, 
In  mute  and  motionless  despair, 
But  he  laid  him  down  beside  his  child, 
And  LILLIAN  saw  him  die — and  smiled. 
The  mother  1  she  had  gone  before  ; 
And  in  the  cottage  on  the  moor, 
With  none  to  watch  her  and  caress, 
No  arm  to  clasp,  no  voice  to  bless, 
The  witless  child  grew  up  alone, 
And  made  all  Nature's  book  her  own. 


LILLIAN.  79 

If,  in  the  warm  and  passionate  hour 
When  Reason  sleeps  in  Fancy's  bower, 
If  thou  hast  ever,  ever  felt 
A  dream  of  delicate  beauty  melt 

Into  the  heart's  recess, 
Seen  by  the  soul,  and  seen  by  the  mind, 

But  indistinct  its  loveliness, 
Adored,  and  not  defined ; 
A  bright  creation,  a  shadowy  ray, 
Fading  and  flitting  in  mist  away, 
Nothing  to  gaze  on,  and  nothing  to  hear, 
But  something  to  cheat  the  eye  and  ear 
With  a  fond  conception  and  joy  of  both, 
So  that  you  might,  that  hour,  be  loth 
To  change  for  some  one's  sweetest  kiss 
Thy  vision  of  unenduring  bliss, 
Or  lose  for  some  one's  sweetest  tone. 
The  murmur  thou  drinkest  all  alone — 
If  such  a  vision  hath  ever  been  thine, 
Thou  hast  a  heart  that  may  look  on  mine ! 

For,  oh!  the  light  of  my  saddened  theme 

Was  like  to  naught  but  a  poet's  dream, 

Or  the  forms  that  come  on  the  twilight's  wing, 

Shaped  by  the  soul's  imagining. 

Beautiful  shade  with  her  tranquil  air, 

And  her  thin  white  arm,  and  her  flowing  hair, 

And  the  light  of  her  eye  so  coldly  obscure, 

And  the  hue  of  her  cheek  so  pale  and  pure  ! 

Reason  and  thought  she  had  never  known, 

Her  heart  was  as  cold  as  a  heart  of  stone ; 


80  LILLIAN. 

So  you  might  guess  from  her  eyes'  dim  rays, 
And  her  idiot  laugh,  and  her  vacant  gaze. 
She  wandered  about  all  lone  on  the  heather, 
She  and  the  wild  heath-birds  together ; 
For  Lillian  seldom  spoke  or  smiled, 
But  she  sang  as  sweet  as  a  little  child. 
Into  her  song  her  dreams  would  throng, 

Silly,  and  wild,  and  out  of  place ; 
And  yet  that  wild  and  roving  song 

Entranced  the  soul  in  its  desolate  grace. 
And  hence  the  story  had  ever  run, 
That  the  fairest  of  dames  was  a  headless  one. 

The  pilgrim  in  his  foreign  weeds 

Would  falter  in  his  prayer ;  . 
And  the  monk  would  pause  with  liis  half  told  beads 

To  breathe  a  blessing  there  ; 
The  knight  would  loose  his  vizor-clasp, 
And  drop  the  rein  from  his  nerveless  grasp, 
And  pass  his  hand  across  his  brow 
With  a  sudden  sigh,  and  a  whispered  vow, 
And  marvel  Flattery's  tale  was  told, 
From  a  lip  so  young  to  an  ear  so  cold. 
She  had  seen  her  sixteenth  winter  out, 
When  she  met  with  the  beast  I  was  singing  about : 
The  dragon,  I  told  you,  had  dined  that  day  ; 
So  he  gazed  upon  her  as  he  lay, 
Earnestly  looking,  and  looking  long, 
With  his  appetite  weak  and  his  wonder  strong. 
Silent  he  lay  in  his  motionless  coil ; 
And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 


LILLIAN.  81 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  I  hear  it  float, 
Innocent  bird,  thy  tremulous  note  : 
It  comes  from  thy  home  in  the  eglantine, 
And  I  stay  this  idle  song  of  mine, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  to  listen  to  thine  ! 

"Nonny  Nonny  !  '  LILLIAN  sings 
The  sweetest  of  all  living  things  !' 
So  Sir  Launcelot  averred  ; 
But  surely  Sir  Launcelot  never  heard 
Nonny  Nonny  !  the  natural  bird  !" 

The  dragon  he  lay  in  mute  amaze, 

Till  something  of  kindness  crept  into  his  gaze ; 

He  drew  the  flames  of  his  nostrils  in, 

He  veiled  his  claws  with  their  speckled  skin, 

He  curled  his  fangs  in  a  hideous  smile ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  who  shall  tell 
Where  the  summer  breezes  dwell  ? 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  breathe  and  blow, 
But  whence  they  come  and  whither  they  go. 
Nonny  Nonny  !   who  shall  know  1 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  I  hear  your  tone, 
But  I  feel  ye  cannot  read  mine  own ; 
And  I  lift  my  neck  to  your  fond  embraces, 
But  who  hath  seen  in  your  resting-places, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  your  beautiful  faces  f 
4* 


82  LILLIAN. 

A  moment !  and  the  dragon  came 

Crouching  down  to  the  peerless  dame, 

With  his  fierce  red  eye  so  fondly  shining, 

And  his  terrible  tail  so  meekly  twining. 

And  the  scales  on  his  huge  limbs  gleaming  o'er, 

Gayer  than  ever  they  gleamed  before. 

She  had  won  his  heart,  while  she  charmed  his  ear, 

And  Lillian  smiled,  and  knew  no  fear. 

And  see,  she  mounts  between  his  wings ; 

(Never  a  queen  had  a  gaudier  throne,) 
And  fairy-like  she  sits  and  sings, 

Guiding  the  steed  with  a  touch  and  a  tone, 
Aloft,  aloft  in  the  clear  blue  ether, 
The  dame  and  the  dragon  they  soared  together ; 
He  bore  her  away  on  the  breath  of  the  gale — • 
The  two  little  dwarfs  held  fast  by  the  tail. 

Fanny  !  a  pretty  group  for  drawing  ; 

My  dragon  like  a  war-horse  pawing, 

My  dwarfs  in  a  fright,  and  my  girl  in  an  attitude^ 

Patting  the  beast  in  her  soulless  gratitude. 

There  ;  you  may  try  it  if  you  will, 

While  I  drink  my  coffee  and  nib  my  quill. 


CANTO    II. 

The  sun  shone  out  on  hill  and  grove  ; 

It  was  a  glorious  day, 
The  lords  and  the  ladies  were  making  love, 

And  the  clowns  were  making  hay; 


LILLIAN  .  83 

But  the  town  of  Brentford  marked  with  wonder 

A  lightning  in  the  sky,  and  thunder, 

And  thinking  ('t  was  a  thinking  town) 

Some  prodigy  was  coming  down, 

A  mighty  mob  to  Merlin  went, 

To  learn  the  cause  of  this  portent ; 

And  he,  a  wizard  sage,  but  comical, 

Looked  through  his  glasses  astronomical, 

And  puzzled  every  foolish  sconce 

By  this  oracular  response  : 

"  Now  the  slayer  doth  not  slay, 

Weakness  flings  her  fear  away, 

Power  bears  the  powerless, 

Pity  rides  the  pitiless  ; 

Are  ye  lovers  ?  are  ye  brave  ? 

Hear  ye  this,  and  seek,  and  save  ! 
He  that  would  wed  the  loveliest  maid, 

Must  don  the  stoutest  mail, 
For  the  rider  shall  never  be  sound  in  the  head, 

Till  the  ridden  be  maimed  in  the  tail. 
Hey  diddle  diddle  !  the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
None  bat  a  lover  can  read  me  my  riddle!''' 

How  kind  art  thou,  and  oh  !  how  mighty, 
Cupid  !  thou  son  of  Aphrodite  ! 
By  thy  sole  aid  in  old  romance, 
Heroes  and  heroines  sing  and  dance ; 
Of  cane  and  rod  there's  little  need ; 
They  never  learn  to  write  or  read  ; 


84  LILLIAN. 

Yet  often,  by  thy  sudden  light, 

Enamored  dames  contrive  to  write; 

And  often,  in  the  hour  of  need, 

Enamored  youths  contrive  to  read. 

I   make  a  small  digression  here  : 

I  merely  mean  to  make  it  clear, 

That  if  Sir  Eglamour  had  wit 

To  read  and  construe,  bit  by  bit, 

All  that  the  wizard  had  expressed, 

And  start  conjectures  on  the  rest, 

Cupid  had  sharpened  his  discerning, 

The  little  god  of  love  and  learning. 

He  revolved  in  his  bed  what  Merlin  had  said, 

Though  Merlin  had  labored  to  scatter  a  veil  on't ; 
And  found  out  the  sense  of  the  tail  and  the  head, 

Though  none  of  his   neighbors   could  make  head  or 

tail  on't. 
Sir  Eglamour  was  one  o'  the  best 

Of  Arthur's  table  round  ; 
He  never  set  his  spear  in  rest, 

But  a  dozen  went  to  the  ground. 
Clear  and  warm  as  the  lightning  flame, 
His  valor  from  his  father  came, 

His  cheek  was  like  his  mother's  ; 
And  his  hazel  eye  more  clearly  shone 
Than  any  I  ever  have  looked  upon, 

Save  Fanny's  and  two  others  ! 

With  his  spur  so  bright,  and  his  rein  so  light, 
And  his  steed  so  swift  and  ready  ; 


LILLIAN.  85 

And  his  skilful  sword,  to  wound  or  ward, 

And  his  spear  so  sure  and  steady ; 
He  bore  him  like  a  British  knight 

From  London  to  Penzance ; 
Avenged  all  weeping  women's  slight, 

And  made  all  giants  dance. 
And  he  had  travelled  far  from  home, 

Had  worn  a  mask  at  Venice, 
Had  kissed  the  Bishop's  toe  at  Rome, 

And  beat  the  French  at  tennis : 
Hence  he  had  many  a  courtly  play, 

And  jeerings  and  jibes  in  plenty, 
And  he  wrote  more  rhymes  in  a  single  day 

Than  Byron  or  Bowles  in  twenty. 

He  clasped  to  his  side  his  sword  of  pride, 
His  sword,  whose  native  polish  vied 

With  many  a  gory  stain ; 
Keen  and  bright  as  a  meteor-light ; 
But  not  so  keen  and  not  so  bright, 

As  Moul trie's*  jesting  vein. 
And  his  shield  he  bound  his  arm  around, 
His  shield,  where  glowing  saffron  wound 

About  a  field  of  blue  ; 
Heavy  and  thick  as  a  wall  of  brick, 
But  not  so  heavy  and  not  so  thick 

As  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

*  Rev.  John  Moultrie,  who,  in  1823,  (when  many  manuscript 
copies  of  "  Lillian"  were  in  circulation,)  wrote  some  beautiful  and 
pathetic  lyrics,  some  of  which  appeared  in  Knight-'s  Quarterly 
Magazine. 


86  LILLIAN. 

With  a  smile  and  a  jest  he  set  out  on  the  quest, 

Clad  in  his  stoutest  mail, 
With  his  helm  of  the  best,  and  his  spear  in  the  rest. 

To  flay  the  dragon's  tail. 

The  warrior  travelled  wearily, 

Many  a  league  and  many  a  mile; 
And  the  dragon  sailed  in  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while  :— 

"  My  steed  and  I,  my  steed  and  I, 
On  in  the  path  of  the  winds  we  fly, 
And  I  chase  the  planets  that  wander  at  even, 
And  bathe  my  hair  in  the  dews  of  heaven ! 
Beautiful  stars,  so  thin  and  bright, 
Exquisite  visions  of  vapor  and  light, 
I  love  ye  all  with  a  sister's  love, 
And  I  rove  with  ye  wherever  ye  rove, 
And  I  drink  your  changeless,  endless  song, 
The  music  ye  make  as  ye  wander  along ! 
Oh !  let  me  be,  as  one  of  ye, 
Floating  for  aye  on  your  liquid  sea ; 
And  I'll  feast  with  you  on  the  purest  rain, 
To  cool  my  weak  and  wildered  brain, 
And  I'll  give  you  the  loveliest  lock  of  my  hair 
For  a  little  spot  in  your  realm  of  air !" 

The  dragon  came  down  when  the  morn  shone  bright 

And  slept  in  the  beam  of  the  sun ; 
Fatigued,  no  doubt,  with  his  airy  flight, 

As  I  with  my  jingling  one. 


LILLIAN. 

With  such  a  monstrous  adversary 
Sir  Eglamour  was  far  too  weary 

To  think  of  bandying  knocks  ; 
He  came  on  his  foe  as  still  as  death, 
Walking  on  tiptoe,  and  holding  his  breath, 
And  instead  of  drawing  his  sword  from  his  sheath, 

He  drew  a  pepper-box  ! 
The  pepper  was  as  hot  as  flame, 

The  box  of  a  wondrous  size ; 
He  gazed  one  moment  on  the  dame, 
Then,  with  a  sure  and  a  steady  aim 
Full  in  the  dragon's  truculent  phiz 
He  flung  the  scorching  powder — whiz ! 

And  darkened  both  his  eyes ! 

Have  you  not  seen  a  little  kite 
Rushing  away  on  its  paper  wing, 
To  mix  with  the  wild  wind's  quarrelling  1 
Up  it  soars  with  an  arrowy  flight, 
Till,  weak  and  unsteady, 
Torn  by  the  eddy, 

It  dashes  to  earth  from  its  hideous  height1? 
Such  was  the  rise  of  the  beast  in  his  pain, 
Such  was  his  falling  to  earth  again ; 
Upward  he  shot,  but  he  saw  not  his  path, 
Blinded  with  pepper,  and  blinded  with  wrath  ; 
One  struggle — one  vain  one — of  pain  and  emotion! 
And  he  shot  back  again,  like  "  a  bird  of  the  ocean !" 
Long  he  lay  in  a  trance  that  day, 


88  LILLIAN. 

And  alas  !  he  did  not  wake  before 
The  cruel  knight  with  skill  and  might, 
Had  lopped  and  flayed  the  tail  he  wore. 

Twelve  hours  by  the  chime  he  lay  in  his  slime, 

More  utterly  blind,  I  trow, 
Than  a  Polypheme  in  the  olden  time, 

Or  a  politician  now. 
He  sped,  as  soon  as  he  could  see, 
To  the  Paynim  bowers  of  Rosalie ; 
For  there  the  dragon  had  hope  to  cure, 
By  the  tinkling  rivulets,  ever  pure, 
By  the  glowing  sun,  and  fragrant  gale, 
His  wounded  honor  and  wounded  tail ! 
He  hied  him  away  to  the  perfumed  spot: 
The  little  dwarfs  clung — where  the  tail  was  not ! 
The  damsel  gazed  on  that  young  knight, 
With  something  of  terror,  but  more  of  delight; 
Much  she  admired  the  gauntlets  he  wore, 
Much  the  device  that  his  buckler  bore, 
Much  the  feathers  that  danced  on  his  crest,  * 

But  most  the  baldrick  that  shone  on  his  breast. 
She  thought  the  dragon's  pilfered  scale 
Was  fairer  far  than  the  warrior's  mail, 
And  she  lifted  it  up  with  her  weak  white  arm. 
Unconscious  of  its  hidden  charm, 
And  round  her  throbbing  bosom  tied, 
In  mimicry  of  warlike  pride. 

Gone  is  the  spell  that  bound  her ! 
The  talisman  hath  touched  her  heart, 
And  she  leaps  with  a  fearful  and  fawn-like  start 


LILLIAN.  89 

As  the  shades  of  glamory  depart — • 
Strange  thoughts  are  glimmering  round  her  ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  her  cheek  is  glowing, 
Quicker  and  quicker  her  breath  is  flowing, 
And  her  eye  gleams  out  from  its  long  dark  lashes, 
Fast  and  full,  unnatural  flashes ; 

For  hurriedly  and  wild 
Doth  Reason  pour  her  hidden  treasures, 
Of  human  griefs,  and  human  pleasures, 

Upon  her  new-found  child. 
And  "  oh  !"  she  saith,  "  my  spirit  doth  seem 
To  have  risen  to-day  from  a  pleasant  dream  ; 
A  long,  long  dream — but  I  feel  it  breaking ! 
Painfully  sweet  is  the  throb  of  waking  ;" 
And  then  she  laughed,  and  wept  again  : 
While,  gazing  on  her  heart's  first  rain, 
Bound  in  his  turn  by  a  magic  chain, 

The  silent  youth  stood  there  : 
Never  had  either  been  so  blest ; — 
You  that  are  young  may  picture  the  rest, 

You  that  are  young  and  fair. 
Never  before,  on  this  warm  land, 
Came  Love  and  Reason  hand  in  hand. 

When  you  were  blest,  in  childhood's  years 
With  the  brightest  hopes  and  the  lightest  fears, 
Have  you  not  wandered  in  your  dream, 

Where  a  greener  glow  was  on  the  ground, 

And  a  clearer  breath  in  the  air  around, 
And  a  purer  life  in  the  gay  sunbeam. 
And  a  tremulous  murmur  in  every  tree, 
And  a  motionless  sleep  on  the  quiet  sea  ? 


90  LILLIAN. 

And  have  you  not  lingered,  lingered  still, 
All  unfettered  in  thought  and  will, 

A  fair  and  cherished  boy  ; 
Until  you  felt  it  pain  to  part 
From  the  wild  creations  of  your  art, 
Until  your  young  and  innocent  heart 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  joy  ? 
And  then,  oh  then,  hath  your  waking  eye 
Opened  in  all  its  ecstacy, 
And  seen  your  mother  leaning  o'er  you. 
The*loved  and  loving  one  that  bore  you, 
Giving  her  own,  her  fond  caress, 
And  looking  her  eloquent  tenderness? 
Was  it  not  heaven  to  fly  from  the  scene 
Where  the  heart  in  the  vision  of  night  had  been, 
And  drink,  in  one  overflowing  kiss, 
Your  deep  reality  of  bliss  ? 
Such  was  LILLIAN'S  passionate  madness, 
Such  the  calm  of  her  waking  gladness. 

Enough  !  my  tale  is  all  too  long  : 
Fair  children,  if  the  trifling  song, 

That  flows  for  you  to-night, 
Hath  stolen  from  you  one  gay  laugh, 
Or  given  your  quiet  hearts  to  quaff 

One  cup  of  young  delight, 
Pay  ye  the  rhymer  for  his  toils 
In  the  coinage  of  your  golden  smiles, 
And  treasure  up  his  idle  verse, 
With  the  stories  ye  loved  from  the  lips  of  your  nurse. 


GOG. 


CANTO  I. 

"  A  most  delicate  monster  1" — Shakspeare. 

King  Arthur,  as  the  Legends  sing, 
Was  a  right  brave  and  merry  King, 
And  had  a  wondrous  reputation 
Through  this  right  brave  and  merry  nation. 
His  ancient  face,  and  ancient  clothes, 
His  Tables  Hound,  and  rounder  Oaths, 
His  crown  and  cup,  his  feasts  and  fights, 
His  pretty  Queen,  and  valiant  Knights, 
Would  make  me  up  the  raciest  scene 
That  is,  or  will  be,  or  has  been. 
These  points,  and  others  not  a  few, 
Of  great  importance  to  the  view, — 
As,  how  King  Arthur  valued  Woman, 
And,  how  King  Arthur  threshed  the  Roman, 
And,  how  King  Arthur  built  a  Hall, 
And,  how  King  Arthur  play'd  at  ball — 


92  GOG. 

I'll  have  the  prudence  to  omit, 
Since  Brevity's  the  soul  of  Wit. 
Oh  !  Arthur's  days  were  blessed  days, 
When  all  was  wit,  and  worth,  and  praise  ; 
And  planting  thrusts,  and  planting  oaks, 
And  cracking  nuts,  and  cracking  jokes, 
And  turning  out  the  toes,  and  tiltings, 
And  jousts,  and  journeyings,  and  jiltings  ; 
Lord  !  what  a  stern  and  stunning  rout, 
As  tall  Adventure  strode  about, 
Rang  through  the  land !  for  there  were  duek- 
For  love  of  Dames,  and  love  of  Jewels ; 
And  steeds,  that  carried  Knight  and  Prince 
As  never  steeds  have  carried  since, 
And  heavy  Lords  and  heavy  lances ; 
And  strange,  unfashionable  dances ; 
And  endless  bustle  and  turmoil, 
In  vain  disputes  for  fame  or  spoil. 
Manners,  and  roads,  were  very  rough, 
Armour,  and  beeves,  were  very  tough  ; 
And  then, — the  brightest  figures  far 
In  din  or  dinner,  peace  or  war, — 
Dwarfs  sang  to  Ladies  in  their  teens, 
And  Giants  grew  as  thick  as  beans ! 

One  of  these  worthies,  in  my  verse, 
I  mean,  Oh !  Clio,  to  rehearse : 
He  was  much  talk'd  of  in  his  time, 
And  sung  of,  too,  in  monkish  rhyme ; 


GOG.  93 

So,  lest  my  pen  should  chance  to  err, 
I'll  quote  his  ancient  chronicler. 
Thus  Friar  Joseph  paints  my  hero  : 


d  mero, 
f  mpabibws,  Iu*ttri0sus. 

jc-juiuaquc  perogws, 
xtbiqite  bwltu  jactang, 
ttbique  mmm  mactanfy 
pro  cccna  boraits,  post  (j 

putros  tostos, 
,  tt  (m  fallit  trror) 
Ipsiits  fvcgis  sape  terror, 
(Krjuontm  equitumqttc  captor, 
Jfntoltt  rupis,  ingens  raptor, 
(Spmopalium  Ijonormn,  — 

bostis  monacborum! 


Such  was  his  eulogy  !  The  fact  is, 
He  had  a  most  outrageous  practice 
Of  running  riot,  bullying,  beating, 
Behaving  rudely,  killing,  eating  ; 
He  wore  a  black  beard,  like  a  Jew's, 
And  stood  twelve  feet  without  his  shoes 
He  used  to  sleep  through  half  the  day, 
And  then  went  out  to  kill  and  slay  ; 
At  night  he  drank  a  deal  of  grog, 
And  slept  again  ;  —  his  name  was  GOG. 

He  was  the  son  of  Gorboduc, 
And  was  a  boy  of  monstrous  pluck  ; 


94  GOG. 

For  once,  when,  in  a  morning  early, 

He  happened  to  be  bruising  barley, 

A  Knight  came  by  with  sword  and  spear 

And  halted  in  his  mid  career  : 

The  youngster  look'd  so  short  and  pliant, 

He  never  dreamed  he  was  a  giant, 

And  so  he  pulled  up  with  a  jerk, 

And  called  young  bruiser  from  his  work  :- 

"  Friend,  can  you  lead  me  by  the  rein 

To  Master  Gordobuc's  domain  ? 

I  mean  to  stop  the  country's  fears, 

And  knock  his  house  about  his  ears  !" 

The  urchin  chuckled  at  the  joke, 

And  grinned  acutely  as  he  spoke  : 

"  Sir  Knight,  I'll  do  it  if  I  can, 

Just  get  behind  me  in  my  pan, 

I'm  off, — I  stop  but  once  to  bait, 

I'll  set  you  down  before  the  gate." 

Sir  Lolly  swallowed  all  the  twang, 

He  leaped  into  the  mortar — bang  ! 

And  when  he  saw  him  in  the  vessel,— 

Gog  beat  his  brains  out  with  the  pestle. 

This  was  esteemed  a  clever  hit, 
And  showed  the  stripling  had  a  wit ; 
Therefore  his  father  spared  no  arts 
To  cultivate  such  brilliant  parts. 
No  giant  ever  went  before 
Beyond  his  "  two  and  two  made  four," 


GOG.  95 

But  Gog  possess'd  a  mind  gigantic, 

And  grasp' d  a  learning  quite  romantic. 

'Tis  certain  that  he  used  to  sport 

The  language  that  they  spoke  at  court ; 

Had  something  of  a  jaunty  air, 

That  men  so  tall  can  seldom  wear ; 

Unless  he  chanc'd  to  need  some  victuals, 

He  was  a  pleasant  match  at  skittles  ; 

And  if  he  could  have  found  a  horse 

To  bear  him  through  a  single  course, 

I  think  he  might  have  brought  the  weight 

'Gainst  all  that  Britain  counted  great. 

In  physic  he  was  sage  indeed, 

He  used  to  blister  and  to  bleed, 

Made  up  strange  plasters — had  been  known 

To  amputate,  or  set  a  bone, 

And  had  a  notable  device 

For  curing  colic  in  a  trice, 

By  making  patients  jump  a  wall, 

And  get  a  most  salubrious  fall. 

Then  in  philosophy,  'twas  said, 

He  got  new  fancies  in  his  head  ; 

Had  reckonings  of  the  sea's  profundity, 

And  dreams  about  the  earth's  rotundity; 

In  argument  was  quite  a  Grecian, 

And  taught  the  doctrine  of  cohesion. 

This  knowledge,  as  one  often  sees, 

Softened  his  manners  by  degrees  ; 

He  came  to  have  a  nicer  maw, 

And  seldom  ate  his  mutton  raw ; 


i  jc  •*-£"*- 


And  if  he  had  upon  his  board 
At  once  a  Peasant  and  a  Lord, 
He  call'd  the  Lord  his  dainty  meat, 
And  had  him  devill'd  for  a  treat. 

Old  Gordobuc,  the  Legends  say, 
Happen'd  to  go  to  pot  one  day  ; 
The  how  and  why  remains  a  question 
Some  say  he  died  of  indigestion, 
From  swallowing  a  little  boat, 
In  drinking  dry  Sir  Toby's  moat. 
Others  assert  that  Dame  Ulrica 
(Whom  he  confined  beneath  a  beaker, 
Having  removed  her  from  her  cottage 
To  stew  her  in  a  mess  of  pottage ;) 
Upset  her  prison  in  the  night, 
And  played  Ulysses  out  of  spite, 
So  that  he  woke,  in  great  surprise, 
With  two  sharp  needles  in  his  eyes. 
Perhaps  Ulrica  may  have  lied  ; 
At  all  events — the  giant  died, 
Bequeathing  to  his  son. and  heir, 
Illustrious  Gog,  the  pious  care 
To  lord  it  o'er  his  goods  and  chattels, 
And  wield  his  club,  and  fight  his  battles. 

'Twould  take  an  Iliad,  Sirs,  to  tell 
The  numerous  feats  on  flood  and  fell 
At  which  my  hero  tried  his  hand ; 
He  was  the  terror  of  the  land, 


GOG.  97 

And  did  a  thousand  humorous  things 
Fit  to  delight  the  ear  of  Kings  ; 
I  cull  what  I  consider  best, 
And  pass  in  silence  o'er  the  rest. 

There  was  a  Lady  sent  from  Wales, 
With  quiet  sea,  and  favouring  gales, 
To  land  upon  the  English  shore, 
And  marry  with  Sir  Paladore. 
It  seems  she  sail'd  from  Milford  Haven, 
On  board  the  Bittern,  Captain  Craven, 
And.  smiles,  and  nods,  and  gratulation, 
Attended  on  her  embarkation. 
But  when  the  ship  got  out  from  land, 
The  Captain  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  a  brace  of  shocking  oaths, 
He  led  her  to  her  chest  of  clothes. 
They  paused  !  he  scratching  at  his  chin, 
As  if  much  puzzled  to  begin  ; 
She  o'er  the  box  in  stupor  leaning, 
As  if  she  couldn't  guess  his  meaning  ; 
Then  thus  the  rogue  the  silence  broke — • 
His  whiskers  wriggled  as  he  spoke  : — 
"  Look  out  an  extra  gown  and  shift ; 
You're  going  to  be  turned  adrift ; 
As  many  gewgaws  as  you  please, 
Only  don't  bounce  upon  your  knees  ; 
It's  very  fine,  but  don't  amuse, 
And  isn't  of  the  smallest  use. 


98  GOU. 

Ho!  there — above  ! — put  down  the  boat, — 

In  half  an  hour  you'll  be  afloat ; — 

I  wouldn't  have  you  lose  a  minute — 

There — put  a  little  victuals  in  it ; 

You  think  I'm  playing  off  a  sham, 

But — split  my  vitals  if  I  am  !" 

Struggling  and  tears  in  vain  were  tried, 

He  haul'd  her  to  the  vessel's  side, 

And  still  the  horrid  brute  ran  on, 

Exclaiming  in  ferocious  tone — 

"  You  needn't  hollow  to  the  crew, 

Be  quiet,  it  will  never  do ; 

Pray,  spare  your  breath  ; — come  wind  and 

weather, 

We  all  are  sworn  to  this  together ! 
Don't  talk  us  round  ! — 'cause  why  ? — you  can't! 
Oh  !  sink  my  timbers  if  we  an't ! 
So — gently  ! — mind  your  footing — there  ! 
You'll  find  the  weather  very  fair  ; 
You'd  better  keep  a  sharp  look-out, 
There  are  some  ugly  reefs  about; 
Stay  ! — what  provision  have  they  made  ye  ? 
I  wouldn't  have  ye   famished,  Lady ! 
Dick  !  lend  a  hand,   ye   staring  oaf, 
And  heave  us  down  another  loaf; 
Here  are  two  bustards — take  'em  both ; 
You've  got  a  famous  pot  of  broth ; 
You'd  better  use  the  sculls— you'll  find 
You've  got  a  deuced  little  wind  ; 


GOG.  99 

Now  ! — don't  stand  blubbering  at  me, 
But  trim  the  boat,  and  put  to  sea." 
He  spoke !  regardless  of  her  moan, 
They  left  her  in  the  boat,  alone  ! 
According  to  our  modern  creed, 
It  was  a  cruel  thing,  indeed  ; 
Unless  some  villain  bribed  them  to  it, 
I  can't  conceive  what  made  them  do  it. 
It  was  a  very  cruel  thing ! — 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  king  ; 
Though  it  appears  that  kings  were  then 
But  little  more  than  common  men. 
She  was  a  handsome  girl,  withal, 
Well-formed,  majestic,  rather  tall; 
She  had  dark  eyes — (I  like  them  dark,) 
And  in  them  was  an  angry  spark 
That  came,  and  went,  and  came  again, 
Like  lightning  in  the  pause  of  rain ; 
Her  robe  adorn' d,  but  not  conceal'd 
The  shape  it  shrouded,  yet  reveal' d  ; 
It  chanc'd  her  ivory  neck  was  bare, 
But  clusters  rich  of  jetty  hair 
Lay  like  a  garment  scatter'd  there ; 
She  had  upon  her  pale,  white  brow, 
A  look  of  pride,  that,  even  now, 
Gazed  round  upon  her  solitude, 
Hopeless,  perhaps,  but  unsubdued, 
As  if  she  thought  the  dashing  wave 
That  swell'd  beneath,  was  born  her  slave. 


100  GOG. 

She  felt  not  yet  .1  touch  of  fear, 
But  didn't  know  which  way  to  steer ; 
She  thought  it  prudent  to  get  back : 
The  wind  due  East ! — she  said  she'd  tack  ; 
And  though  she  had  a  tinge  of  doubt, 
She  laugh'd,  and  put  the  helm  about. 
The  wind  went  down — a  plaguy  calm ; 
The  Princess  felt  a  rising  qualm ; 
The  boat  lay  sleeping  on  the  sea, 
The  sky  look'd  blue, — and  so  did  she ! 
The  night  came  on,  and  still  the  gale 
Breath' d  vainly  on  her  leather  sail ; 
It  scarcely  would  have  stirr'd  a  feather; — 
Heaven  and  her  hopes  grew  dark  together; 
She  slept !     I  don't  know  how  she  dined, — 
And  light  returned,  and  brought  no  wind  ; 
She  seized  her  oars  at  break  of  day, 
And  thought  she  made  a  little  way ; 
The  skin  was  rubbed  from  off  her  thumb, 
And  she  had  no  Diaculum. 
(Diaculum,  my  story  says, 
Was  not  invented  in  those  days.) 
At  last,  not  being  used  to  pull, 
She  lost  her  temper, — and  her  scull. 

A  long,  long  time  becalm'd  she  lay, 
And  still  untir'd  from  day  to  day, 
She  formed  a  thousand  anxious  wishes, 
And  bit  her  nails,  and  watch' d  the  fishes  ; 


GOG.  101 

To  give  it  up  she  still  was  loth  ; 
She  ate  the  bustards  and  the  broth ; 
And  when  they  fail'd,  she  sigh'd,  and  said, 
"  I'll  make  my  dinner  on  the  bread  !" 
She  ate  the  bread,  and  thought  with  sorrow, 
"  There's  nothing  left  me  for  to-morrow !" 
She  pull'd  her  lover's  letter  out, 
And  turn'd  its  vellum  leaves  about ; 
It  was  a  billet-doux  of  fire, 
Scarce  thicker  than  a  modern  quire ; 
And  thus  it  ran :  — "  I  never  suppe, 
Because  mine  heatte  dothe  eatte  me  upp:1 ; 
And  eke,  dear  Loue,  I  never  dine, 
N"or  drinke  atte  Courte  a  cuppe  of  win  o  ; 
For  daye  and  nighte — I  telle  you  true, — 
I  feede  uponne  my  Loue  for  you." 
Alas  !  that  Lady  fair,  who  long- 
Had  felt  her  hunger  rather  strong, 
Said  (and  her  eye  with  tears  was  dim), 
"I've  no  such  solid  love  for  him!" 
And  so  she  thought  it  might  be  better 
To  sup  upon  her  Lover's  letter. 

She  ate  the  treasure  quite,  or  nearly, 
From  " Beauteous  Queen!"   to  "Yours  sin 
cerely  !" 

She  thought  upon  her  Father's  crown, 
And  then  Despair  came  o'er  her ! — down 
Upon  the  bottom-boards  she  lay, 
And  veil'd  her  from  the  look  of  day  ; 


102  GOG. 

The  sea-birds  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  she 
Look'd  out  upon  the  tumbling  sea ; 
And  there  was  nothing  on  its  face 
But  wide,  interminable  space, 
And  so  she  gave  a  piteous  cry — 
The  murmuring  waters  made  reply  ! 
Alas  !  another  morning  came, 
And  brought  no  food  !  the  hapless  Dame 
Thought,  as  she  watch'd  the  lifeless  sail, 
That  she  should  die  "  withouten  fail !" 
Another  morn, — and  not  a  whiff! 
The  lady  grew  so  weak  and  stiff 
That  she  could  hardly  move  her  stumps  ; 
At  last  she  fed  upon  her  pumps  ! 
And  call'd  upon  her  absent  Lord, 
And  thought  of  going  overboard  : 
As  the  dusk  evening  veil'd  the  sky 
She  said,  "  I'm  ready  now  to  die !" 
She  saw  the  dim  light  fade  away, 
And  fainted  as  she  kneel'd  to  pray. 

I  sing  not  where  and  how  the  boat 
With  its  pale  load  contrived  to  float, 
Nor  how  it  struck  off  Hartland  Point, 
And  'gan  to  leak  at  every  joint ; 
'Twill  be  enough,  I  think,  to  tell  ye 
Linda  was  shaken  to  a  jelly, 
And,  when  she  woke  from  her  long  sleep, 
Was  lying  in  the  Giant's  keep, 


GOG.  103 

While  at  a  distance,  like  a  log, 

Her  Captor  snored — prodigious  Gog! 

He  spared,  as  yet,  his  captive's  life ; 
She  wasn't  ready  for  the  knife, 
For  toil,  and  famine,  and  the  sun, 
Had  worn  her  to  a  skeleton  ; 
He  kept  her  carefully  in  view, 
And  fed  her  for  a  week  or  two ; 
Then,  in  a  sudden  hungry  freak, 
He  felt  her  arm,  and  neck,  and  cheek, 
And,  being  rather  short  of  meat, 
Cried  out  that  she  was  fit  to  eat. 
The  monster  saw  the  bright  dark  eye 
That  met  his  purpose  fearlessly  ; 
He  saw  th«  form  that  did  not  quail, 
He  saw  the  look  that  did  not  fail, 
And  the  white  arm,  that  tranquil  lay, 
And  never  stirred  to  stop  or  stay ; 
He  changed  his  mind — threw  down  the  knife, 
And  swore  that  she  should  be  his  wife. 

Linda,  like  many  a  modern  Miss, 
Began  to  veer  about  at  this  ; 
She  feared  not  roasting  ! — but  a  ring ! 
Oh  Lord  !  'twas  quite  another  thing  ; 
She'd  rather  far  be  fried  than  tied, 
And  make  a  sausage  than  a  bride  5 


104 


She  had  no  hand  at  argument, 

And  so  she  tried  to  circumvent.* 

"  My  Lord,"  said  she,  "  I  know  a  plaster, 

The  which,  before  my  sad  disaster, 

I  kept  most  carefully  in  store 

For  my  own  Knight,  Sir  Paladore. 

It  is  a  mixture  mild  and  thin  ; 

But  when  'tis  spread  upon  the  skin 

It  makes  a  surface  white  as  snow — 

Sword-proof  thenceforth  from  top  to  toe  ; 

I've  sworn  to  wed  with  none,  my  Lord, 

Who  can  be  harm'd  by  human  sword. 

The  ointment  shall  be  yours  !  I'll  make  it, 

Mash  it  and  mix  it,  rub  and  bake  it ; 

You  look  astonish'd! — you  shall  see, 

And  try  its  power  upon  me." 

She  bruised  some  herbs ;  to  make  them  hot, 
She  put  them  in  the  Giant's  pot ; 
Some  mystic  words  she  uttered  there, 
But  whether  they  were  charm  or  prayer 
The  Convent  Legend  hath  not  said ; — 
A  little  of  the  salve  she  spread 


The  latter  part  of  Linda's  history, 
In  Ariosto's  work  is  an  ingredient  ; 

I  can't  imagine  how  my  monks  and  he 
Happen'd  to  hit  upon  the  same  expedient  ; 

You'll  find  it  in  "Orlando  Furioso ;" 

But  Mr.  Iloole's  Translation  is  but  so  so. 


GOG. 


105 


Upon  her  neck,  and  then  she  stood 

In  reverential  attitude, 

With  head  bent  down,  and  lips  compress'd, 

And  hands  enfolded  on  her  breast ; — 

"  Strike !'" — and  the  stroke  in  thunder  fell 

Full  on  the  neck  that  met  it  well ; 

"  Strike  !" — the  red  blood  started  out 

Like  water  from  a  water-spout ; 

A  moment's  space — and  down  it  sunk, — • 

That  headless,  pale,  and  quivering  trunk, 

And  the  small  head  with  its  gory  wave 

Flew  in  wild  eddies  round  the  cave. 

You  think  I  shouldn't  laugh  at  this  ; 

You  know  not  that  a  scene  of  bliss 

To  close  my  song  is  yet  in  store  ; 

For  Merlin  to  Sir  Paladore 

The  head  and  trunk  in  air  convey'd, 

And  spoke  some  magic  words,  and  made, 

By  one  brief  fillip  of  his  wand, 

The  happiest  pair  in  all  the  land  : — 

The  Giant— but  I  think  I've  done 

Enough  of  him  for  CANTO  ONE. 


GOG. 

CA!NTO    II. 

"A  most  delicate  monster!" — SJiakspeare. 

The  morn  is  laughing  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  hath  risen  jocundly, 
Brightly  the  dancing  beam  hath  shone 
On  the  cottage  of  clay,  and  the  abbey  of 

stone ; 

As  on  the  redolent  air  they  float, 
The  songs  of  the  birds  have  a  gayer  note. 
And  the  fall  of  the  waters  hath  breathed 

around 

A  purer  breath  and  a  sweeter  sound  ; 
And  why  is  Nature  so  richly  drest 
In  the  flowery  garb  she  loveth  best  ? 
Peasant  and  Monk  will  tell  you  the  tale, — • 
There  is  a  wedding  in  Nithys-dale ! 


GOG.  107 

With  his  green  vest  around  him  flung, 
His  bugle  o'er  his  shoulders  hung, 
And  roses  blushing  in  his  hair, 
The  Minstrel-Boy  is  waiting  there! 
O'er  his  young  cheek  and  earnest  brow 
Pleasure  hath  spread  a  warmer  glow, 
And  Love  his  fervid  look  hath  dight 
In  something  of  etherial  light : 
And  still  the  Minstrel's  pale  blue  eye 
Is  looking  out  impatiently 
To  see  his  glad  and  tender  bride 
Come  dancing  o'er  the  hillock's  side. 
For  look  !  the  sun's  all-cheering  ray 
Shines  proudly  on  a  joyous  day  ; 
And,  ere  his  setting,  young  Le  Fraile 
Shall  wed  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale  ! 

A  moment,  and  he  saw  her  come, — 
That  maiden,  from  her  latticed  home, 
With  eyes  all  love,  and  lips  apart, 
And  faltering  step,  and  beating  heart. 
She  came,  and  joined  her  cheek  to  his 
In  one  prolonged  and  rapturous  kiss ; 
And  while  it  thrilled  through  heart  and  limb, 
The  world  was  nought  to  her  or  him. 
Fair  was  the  boy ;  a  woman's  grace 
Bearn'd  o'er  his  figure  and  his  face ; 

O  / 

His  red  lips  had  a  maiden's  pout, 
And  his  light  eyes  look'd  sweetly  out, 


108 


Scattering  a  thousand  vivid  flashes 

Beneath  their  long  and  jetty  lashes; — 

And  she,  the  still  and  timid  bride, 

That  clnng  so  fondly  to  his  side, 

Might  well  have  seem'd,  to  Fancy's  sight, 

Some  slender  thing  of  air  or  light ! 

So  white  an  arm,  so  pale  a  cheek, 

A  look  so  eloquently  meek, 

A  neck  of  such  a  marble  hue, 

An  eye  of  such  transparent  blue, — 

Could  never,  never  take  their  birth 

From  parentage  of  solid    earth  ! 

He  that  had  searched  fair  England  round 

A  lovelier  pair  had  never  found, 

Than  that  minstrel  boy,  the  young  LP  Fraile, 

And  Alice,  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale  ! 

Hark  !  hark !  a  sound !  it  flies  along, 
How  fearfully !  a  trembling  throng 
Come  round  the  Bride  in  wild  amaze, 
All  ear  and  eye  to  hear  and  gaze ; 
Again  it  came — that  sound  of  wonder — 
Rolling  along  like  distant  thunder; 
"  That  barbarous  growl — that  horrid  noise — 
Was  it  indeed  a  human  voice  ? 
The  man  must  have  a  thousand  tongues, 
And  bellows  of  brass,  by  way  of  lungs  !" 
Each  to  his  friend,  in  monstrous  fuss, 
The  staring  peasants  whispered  thus : — • 


GOG.  109 

"  Hark  !  hark  !  another  echoing  shout !" 
And,  as  the  boobies  stared  about, 
Just  leaping  o'er  a  mountain's  brow, 
They  saw  the  Brute  that  made  the  row ; — 
Two  meadows  and  a  little  bog 
Divided  them  from  cruel  Gog  ! 

Maiden  and  matron,  boy  and  man, 
You  can't  conceive  how  fast  they  ran  ! 
And  as  they  scampered,  you  might  hear 
A  thousand  sounds  of  pain  and  fear. 
"I  get  so  tired" — "Where's  my  son  ?" — 
"How  fast  the  horrid  beast  comes  on  !" — 
"  What  plaguy  teeth  !" — "  You  heard  him 

roar  ?"— 

"  I  never  puffed  so  much  before  !" — 
"I  can't  imagine  what  to  do !" — 
"  Whom  has  he  caught  ?" — "I've  lost  my  shoe !" 

"  Oh  !  I'm  a  sinful "  "  Father  Joe, 

Do  just  absolve  me  as  we  go  !" — 

"  Absolve  you  here  ?  pray  hold  your  pother  ; 

I  wouldn't  do  it  for  my  mother ! 

A  pretty  time  to  stop  and  shrive, 

Zounds !  we  shall  all  be  broiled  alive  ! 

I  feel  the  spit !" — "Nay,  father,  nay, 

Don't  talk  in  such  a  horrid  way  !" — 

"  Oh !  mighty  Love,  to  thee  I  bow ! 

Oh  give  me  wings  and  save  me  now  !" — 

"A  fig  for  Love !"— "  Don't  talk  of  figs ! 

He'll  stick  us  all  like  sucking  pigs ! 


110  GOG. 

Or  skin  us  like  a  dish  of  eels — " 
"  Run — run — he's  just  upon  your  heels  !" 
"  I  promise  the  Abbey  a  silver  cup ! 
Holy  St.  Jerome,  trip  him  up !" 
"  I  promise  the  Abbey  a  silver  crown ! 
Holy  St.  Jerome,  knock  him  down !" 
The  Monster  came,  and  singled  out 
The  tenderest  bit  in  all  the  rout ; 
Spite  of  her  weeping  and  her  charms, 
He  tore  her  from  her  Lover's  arms. 
Woe  for  that  hapless  Minstrel-Boy ! 
"Where  is  his  pride,  his  hope,  his  joy  ? 
His  eye  is  wet,  his  cheek  is  pale ; 
He  hath  lost  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale. 

It  chanc'd  that  day  two  travelling  folk 
Had  spread  their  cloth  beneath  an  oak, 
And  sat  them  gayly  down  to  dine 
On  good  fat  buck,  and  ruddy  wine. 
One  was  a  Friar,  fat  and  sleek, 
With  pimpled  nose,  and  rosy  cheek, 
And  belly,  whose  capacious  paunch 
Told  tales  of  many  a  buried  haunch. 
He  was  no  Stoic !  in  his  eye 
Frolic  fought  hard  with  Gravity ; 
And  though  he  strove,  in  conversation, 
To  talk  as  best  beseemed  his  station, 
Yet  did  he  make  some  little  slips ; 
And  in  the  corners  of  his  lips 


GOG.  Ill 

There  were  some  sly,  officious  dimples, 

Which  spake  no  love  for  roots  and  simples. 

The  other  was  a  hardy  Knight, 

Caparison' d  for  instant  fight ; 

You  might  have  deemed  him  framed  of  stone, 

So  huge  he  was  of  limb  and  bone : 

His  short  black  hair,  unmixed  with  grey, 

Curl'd   closely  on  his  forehead  lay ; 

His  brow  was  swarthy,  and  a  scar, 

Not  planted  there  in  recent  war, 

Had  drawn  one  long  and  blushing  streak 

Over  the  darkness  of  his  cheek. 

The  Warrior's  voice  was  full  and  bold, 

His  gorgeous  arms  were  rich  with  gold ; 

But  weaker  shoulders  soon  would  fail 

Beneath  that  cumbrous  mass  of  mail ; 

Yet,  from  his  bearing,  you  might  guess 

He  oft  had  worn  a  softer  dress, 

And  laid  aside  that  nodding  crest, 

To  lap  his  head  on  lady's  breast. 

The  ,neal,  of  course,  was  short  and  hasty, 
And  they  had  half  got  through  the  pasty, 
When  hark  !  a  shriek  rung  loud  and  shrill ; — 
The  Churchman  jump'd,  and  dropp'd  the  gill ; 
The  Soldier  started  from  the  board, 
And  twined  his  hand  around  his  sword. 
While  they  were  wondering  at  the  din, 
The  Minstrel-Boy  came  running  in  ; 


II '2  GOG. 

With  trembling  frame,  and  rueful  face, 
He  bent  his  knee,  and  told  his  case  : — 
"  The  Monster's  might  away  hath  riven 
My  bliss  on  Earth,  my  hope  in  Heaven  ; 
And  there  is  nothing  left  me  now 
But  doubt  above,  and  grief  below! 
My  heart  and  hers  together  fly, 
And  she  must  live,  or  I  must  die ! 
Look  at  the  Caitiffs  face  of  pride ; 
Look  at  his  long  and  haughty  stride  ; 
Look  how  he  bears  her  o'er  hill  and  vale — 
My  Beauty,  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale !" 

They  gazed  around  them ! — Monk  and  Knight 
Were  startled  at  that  awful  sight ; 
They  never  had  the  smallest  notion 
How  vast  twelve  feet  would  look  in  motion. 
Dark  as  the  midnight's  deepest  gloom — 
Swift  as  the  breath  of  the  Simoom, — 
That  hill  of  flesh  was  moving  on  ; 
And  oh  !  the  sight  of  horror  won 
A  shriek  from  all  our  three  beholders ; 
He  bore  the  maid  upon  his  shoulders ! 
"Now,"  said  the  Knight,  "by  all  the  fame 
That  ever  clung  to  Arthur's  name, 
I'll  do  it,— or  I'll  try,  at  least, 
To  win  her  from  that  monstrous  Beast !" 
"Sir,"  said  the  Friar  to  the  Knight, 
"  Success  will  wait  upon  the  right ; 


113 

I  feel  much  pity  for  the  youth, 

And  though,  to  tell  the  honest  truth, 

I'm  rather  used  to  drink  than  slay, 

I'll  aid  you  here  as  best  I  may  !" 

They  bade  the  Minstrel  blow  a  blast 

To  stop  the  monster  as  he  passed  ; 

Gog  was  quite  puzzled  ! — "Zounds — I'  feg! 

My  friend — piano! — let  me  beg  !" 

Then  in  a  rage  towards  the  place 

He  strode  along  a  rattling  pace  ; 

Firm  on  the  ground  his  foot  he  planted, 

And  "  wonder' d  what  the  deuce  they  wanted!" 

No  blockhead  was  that  holy  man — 
He  clear'd  his  throat  and  thus  began  : — 
"  0  Pcssime — that  is,  I  pray, 
Discede — signifying  stay ! 
Damno — that  is,  before  you  go, 
Sis  comes  in  convivio; 
AH — that  is,  set  down  the  Lass  ; 
Monstrum — that  is,  you'll  take  a  glass  ? 
Oh,  holy  church. ! — that  is,  I  swear 
You  never  looked  no  nicer  fare ; 
Informe — horridum — immanef 
That  is,  the  wine's  as  good  as  any; 
Apage!  exorcizo  tef 
That  is,  it  came  from  Burgundy ; 
We  both  are  anxious — execrande  ! 
To  drink  your  health — abominande  ! 


114  GOG. 

And  then  my  comrade  means  to  put 

His  falchion  through  your  occiput !" 

The  Giant  stared  (and  who  would  not  ?) 

To  find  a  monk  so  wondrous  hot ; 

So  fierce  a  stare  you  never  saw ; 

At  last  the  Brute's  portentous  jaw 

Swung,  like  a  massy  creaking  hinge, 

And  then,  beneath  its  shaggy  fringe 

Rolling  about  each  wondrous  eye, 

He  scratched  his  beard,  and  made  reply : — 

"  Bold  is  the  Monk,  and  bold  the  Knight 

That  wishes  with  Gog  to  drink  or  fight, 

For  I  have  been  from  east  to  west, 

And  battled  with  King  Arthur's  best, 

And  never  found  I  friend  or  foe 

To  stand  my  cup — or  bear  my  blow  !" 

"  Most  puissant  Gog  !  although  I  burst," 

Exclaimed  the  Monk,  "  I'll  do  the  first ;" 

And  ere  a  moment  could  be  reckoned, 

The  Knight  chimed  in — "I'll  try  the  second  !" 

The  Giant,  ere  he  did  the  job, 
Took  a  huge  chain  from  out  his  fob  ; 
He  bound  his  captive  to  a  tree ! 
And  young  Le  Fraile  came  silently, 
And  marked  how  all  her  senses  slept, 
And  leaned  upon  her  brow,  and  wept ; 
He  kissed  her  lip,  but  her  lip  was  grown 
As  coldly  white  as  a  marble  stone  ; 


GOG.  115 

He  met  her  eye,  but  its  vacant  gaze 
Had  not  the  light  of  its  living  rays ; 
Yet  still  that  trembling  lover  pressed 
The  maiden  to  his  throbbing  breast, 
Till  consciousness  returned  again, 
And  the  tears  flowed  out  like  summer  rain. 
There  was  the  bliss  of  a  hundred  years 
In  the  rush  of  those  delicious  tears ! 

The  helm  from  off  the  warrior's  head 
Is  doffed  to  bear  the  liquor  red ; 
That  casque,  I  trow,  is  deep  and  high, 
But  the  Monk  and  the  Giant  shall  drain  it  dry ; 
And  which  of  the  two,  when  the  feat  is  done, 
Shall  keep  his  legs  at  set  of  sun  ? 

They  filled  to  the  brim  that  helm  of  gold, 
And  the  Monk  hath  drained  its  ample  hold ; 
Silent  and  slow  the  liquor  fell, 
As  into  some  capacious  well : 
Tranquilly  flowing  down  it  went, 
And  made  no  noise  in  its  long  descent ; 
And  it  leaves  no  trace  of  its  passage  now 
But  the  stain  on  his  lip,  and  the  flush  on  his 
brow. 

They  filled  to  the  brim  that  helm  of  gold, 
And  the  Giant  hath  drained  its  ample  hold ; 
Through  his  dark  jaws  the  purple  ocean 
Ran  with  a  swift  and  restless  motion, 


116  GOG. 

And  the  roar  that  heralded  on  its  track 
Seemed  like  the  burst  of  a  cataract. 
Twice  for  each  was  the  fountain  filled — 
Twice  by  each  was  the  red  flood  swilled ; 
The  Monk  is  as  straight  as  a  poplar  tree, — 
Gog  is  as  giddy  as  Gog  may  be  ! 

"Now  try  we  a  buffet!"  exclaimed  theKnight, 
And  rose  collected  in  his  might, 
Crossing  his  arms,  and  clenching  his  hand, 
And  fixing:  his  feet  on  their  firmest  stand. 

O 

The  Giant  struck  a  terrible  stroke, 

But  it  lighted  on  the  forest-oak ; 

And  bough  and  branch  of  the  ancient  tree 

Shook,  as  he  smote  it,  wondrously : 

His  gauntleted  hand  the  Warrior  tried  ; 

Full  it  fell  on  the  Giant's  side  ; 

He  sank  to  earth  with  a  hideous  shock, 

Like  the  ruin   of  a   crumbling  rock ; 

And  that  quivering  mass  was  senseless  laid 

In  the  pit  its  sudden  fall  had  made. 

That  stranger  Knight  hath  gone  to  the  tree 
To  set  the  trembling  Captive  free  ; 
Thrice  hath  he  smitten  with  might  and  main, 
And  burst  the  lock,  and  shivered  the  chain  ; 
But  the  knotty  trunk,  as  the  warrior  strove, 
Wrenched  from  his  hand  the  iron  glove, 
And  they  saw  the  gem  on  his  finger's  ring, 
And  they  bent  the  knee  to  England's  King. 


GOG. 


117 


"  Up !  up  !"  be  said,  "for  the  sun  hath  past 
The  shadows  of  night  are  falling  fast, 
And  still  the  wedding  shall  be  to-day, 
And  a  King  shall  give  the  bride  away !" 

The  Abbey-bells  are  ringing 

With  a  merry,  merry  tone ; 
And  the  happy  boors  are  singing 

With  a  music  all  their  own  ; 
Joy  came  in  the  Morning,  and  fled  at  Noon  ; 
But  he  smiles  again  by  the  light  of  the  Moon  ; 
That  Minstrel-Boy,  the  young  Le  Frail e, 
Hath  wedded  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale ! 


(ETON,  1821.) 


THE    TROUBADOUR. 

Le  Troubadour 
Brulant  d'amour. 

French  Ballad. 

CANTO    I. 

IN  sooth  it  was  a  glorious  day 

For  vassal  and  for  lord, 
When  Coeur  de  Lion  had  the  sway 

In  battle  and  at  board. 
He  was  indeed  a  royal  one, 

A  Prince  of  Paladins  ; 
Hero  of  triumph  and  of  tun, 
Of  noisy  fray  and  noisy  fun, 

Broad  shoulders  and  broad  grir:-? 
You  might  have  looked  from  east  to  west, 

And  then  from  north  to  south, 
And  never  found  an  ampler  breast, 

Never  an  ampler  mouth, 
A  softer  tone  for  lady's  ear, 

A  daintier  lip  for  syrup, 
Or  a  ruder  grasp  for  axe  and  spear, 

Or  a  firmer  foot  in  stirrup. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  119 

A  ponderous  thing  was  Richard's  can, 

And  so  was  Richard's  boot, 
And  Saracens  and  liquor  ran, 

Where'er  he  set  his  foot. 
So  fiddling  here,  and  fighting  there, 

And  murdering  time  and  tune, 
With  sturdy  limb,  and  listless  air, 
And  gaimtleted  hand,  and  jeweled  hair, 

Half  monarch,  half  buffoon, 
He  turned  away  from  feast  to  fray, 

From  quarreling  to  quaffing, 
So  great  in  prowess  and  in  pranks, 
So  fierce  and  funny  in  the  ranks, 
That  Saladin  the  Soldan  said, 
Whene'er  that  mad-cap  Richard  led, 
Alia!  he  held  his  breath  for  dread, 

And  burst  his  sides  for  laughing ! 

At  court,  the  humor  of  a  king 

Is  always  voted  "quite  the  thing;" 

Morals  and  cloaks  are  loose  or  laced 

According  to  the  Sovereign's  taste, 

And  belles  and  banquets  both  are  drest 

Just  as  his  majesty  thinks  best. 

Of  course  in  that  delightful  age, 

When  Richard  ruled  the  roast, 
Cracking  of  craniums  was  the  rage, 

And  beauty  was  the  toast. 
Ay  !  all  was  laugh,  and  life,  and  love ; 

And  lips  and  shrines  were  kiss'd  ; 
And  vows  were  ventured  in  the  grove, 

And  lances  in  the  list ; 


120  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

And  boys  roamed  out  in  sunny  weather 
To  weave  a  wreath  and  rhyme  together  : 
While  dames,  in  silence,  and  in  satin, 
Lay  listening  to  the  soft  French-Latin. 
And  flung  their  sashes  and  their  sighs 
From  odor-breathing  balconies. 

From  those  bright  days  of  love  and  glory, 

I  take  the  hero  of  my  story. 

A  wandering  Troubadour  was  he  ; 

He  bore  a  name  of  high  degree, 

And  learned  betimes  to  slay  and  sue, 

As  knights  of  high  degree  should  do. 

While  vigor  nerved  his  buoyant  arm, 

And  youth  was  his  to  cheat  and  charm, 

Being  immensely  fond  of  dancing, 

And  somewhat  given  to  romancing, 

He  roamed  about  through  towers  and  towns, 

Apostrophizing  smiles  and  frowns, 

Singing  sweet  staves  to  beads  and  bonnets, 

And  dying,  day  by  day,  in  sonnets. 

Flippant  and  fair,  and  fool  enough, 

And  careless  where  he  met  rebuff, 

Pococurante  in  all  cases 

Of  furious  foes,  or  pretty  faces, 

With  laughing  lip,  and  jocund  eye, 

And  studied  tear,  and  practised  sigh, 

And  ready  sword,  and  ready  verse, 

And  store  of  ducats  in  his  purse, 

He  sinned  few  crimes,  loved  many  times, 

And  wrote  a  hundred  thousand  rhymes  ! 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  121 

Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away, 
Since  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  lay, 

A  rosy,  roaring  child, 
While  all  around  was  noisy  mirth, 
And  logs  blazed  up  upon  the  hearth, 

Arid  bonfires  on  the  wild ; 
And  vassals  drank  the  brown  bowl  dry, 
And  cousins  knew  "  the  mother's  eye," 
And  wrinkled  crones  spoke  prophecy, 

And  his  brave  father  smiled. 
Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away ; 
His  sire's  thin  locks  grew  very  gray  j 

He  lost  his  song,  and  then  his  shout, 

And  seldom  saw  his  bottle  out. 

Then  all  the  menials  straight  began 

To  sorrow  for  "  the  poor  old  man," 

Took  thought  about  his  shirts  and  shoe-ties 

And  pestered  him  with  loves  and  duties : 

Young  Roger  laced  a  crimson  row 

Of  cushions  on  his  saddle-bow  ; 

Red  Wyke  at  Christmas  mingled  up 

More  sugar  in  the  wassail-cup  ; 

Fair  Margaret  laid  finer  sheets  ; 

Fat  Catharine  served  richer  sweets  ; 

And  all,  from  scullion  up  to  squire, 

Who  stirred  his  cup  or  kitchen  fire, 

Seemed  by  their  doings  to  determine 

The  knight  should  ne'er  be  food  for  vermin. 

All  would  not  do  ;  the  knight  grew  thinner, 

And  loved  his  bed,  and  loathed  his  dinner; 
6 


122  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

And  when  he  muttered — "  Bccket — beast, 
Bring  me  the  posset — and  a  priest," 
Becket  looked  grave,  and  said  "good  lack  !" 
And  went  to  ask  the  price  of  black. 

Masses  and  medicines  both  were  bought, 
Masses  and  medicines  both  were  naught ; 

Sir  Hubert's  race  was  run  ; 
As  best  beseemed  a  warrior  tall, 
He  died  within  his  ancient  hall : 
And  he  was  blest  by  Father  Paul, 

And  buried  by  his  son. 
'Twere  long  to  tell  the  motley  gear, 
That  waited  on  Sir  Hubert's  bier ; 

For  twenty  good  miles  round, 
Maiden  and  matron,  knave  and  knight, 
All  rode  or  ran  to  see  the  sight ; 

Yeomen  with  horse  and  hound, 
Gossips  in  grief  and  grogram  clad, 
Young  warriors  galloping  like  mad, 
Priors  and  peddlers,  pigs  and  pyxes, 
Cooks,  choristers,  and  crucifixes, 
Wild  urchins  cutting  jokes  and  capers, 
And  taper  shape?,  and  shapely  tapers. 
The  mighty  barons  of  the  land 
Brought  pain  in  heart,  and  four-in-hand; 
And  village  maids,  with  looks  of  woe, 
Turned  out  their  mourning,  and  their  toe. 
The  bell  was  rung,  the  hymn  was  sung, 
On  the  oak  chest  the  dust  was  flune : 


THE     TROCBADOUR.  123 

And  then,  beneath  the  chapel-stones, 
With  a  gilt  'scutcheon  o'er  his  bones, 
Escaped  from  feather-beds  and  fidget, 
Sir  Hubert  slept  with  Lady  Bridget, 

The  mob  departed  :  cold  and  cloud 
Shed  on  the  vault  their  icy  shroud, 

And  night  came  dark  and  dreary  ; 
But  there  young  Vidal  lingered  still, 
And  kept  his  fast  and  wept  his  fill, 
Though  the  wind  in  the  chapel  was  very  chill, 

And  Vidal  very  weary. 
Low  moaned  the  bell ;  the  torch-light  fell 

In  fitful  and  faint  flashes ; 
And  he  lay  on  the  stones,  where  his  father's  bones 

Were  mouldering  now  to  ashes ; 
And  vowed  to  be,  on  earth  and  sea, 

Whatever  stars  shone  o'er  him, 
A  trusty  knight,  in  love  and  fight, 

As  his  father  had  been  before  him. 
Then  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
Passionate  grief  was  his  delight ; 
He  thought  of  all  the  brave  and  fair 
Who  slept  their  shadowy  slumber  there; 
Arid  that  sweet  dotage  held  him  long, 
Ere  sorrow  found  her  voice  in  song. 

It  was  an  ancient  thing  ;  a  song 

His  heart  had  sung  in  other  years, 
When  boyhood  had  its  idle  throng 

Of  guiltless  smiles,  and  guileless  tears ; 


124  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

But  never  had  its  music  seemed 

So  sweet  to  him,  as  when  to-night 
All  lorn  and  lone,  he  kneeled  and  dreamed, 

Before  the  taper's  holy  light, 
Of  many  and  mysterious  things, 
His  cradle's  early  visitings, 
The  melancholy  tones,  that  blest 
The  pillow  of  his  sinless  rest, 
The  melody,  whose  magic  numbers 
Broke  in  by  snatches  on  his  slumbers, 
When  earth  appeared  so  brightly  dim, 
And  all  was  bliss,  and  all  for  him, 
And  every  sight  and  every  sound 
Had  heaven's  own  day -light  flowing  round. 

"  My  mother's  grave,  my  mother's  grave  ! 

Oh  !  dreamless  is  her  slumber  there, 
And  drowsily  the  banners  wave 

O'er  her  that  was  so  chaste  and  fair ; 
Yea  !  love  is  dead,  and  memory  faded ! 
But  when  the  dew  is  on  the  brake, 

And  silence  sleeps  on  earth  and  sea, 
And  mourners  weep,  and  ghosts  awake, 

Oh  !  then  she  cometh  back  to  me, 
In  her  cold  beauty  darkly  shaded  ! 

"  1  cannot  guess  her  face  or  form ; 

But  what  to  me  is  form  or  face  ? 
I  do  not  ask  the  weary  worm 

To  give  me  back  each  buried  grace 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  125 

Of  glistening  eyes,  or  trailing  tresses ! 
I  only  feel  that  she  is  here, 

And  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  part ; 
And  that  I  drink  within  mine  ear, 

And  that  I  clasp  around  my  heart, 
Her  sweet  still  voice,  and  soft  caresses  ! 

"Not  in  the  waking  thought  by  day, 

Not  in  the  sightless  dream  by  night, 
Do  the  mild  tones  and  glances  play, 
Of  her  who  was  my  cradle's  light ! 
But  in  some  twilight  of  calm  weather, 
She  glides,  by  fancy  dimly  wrought, 

A  glittering  cloud,  a  darkling  beam, 
With  all  the  quiet  of  a  thought, 

And  all  the  passion  of  a  dream, 
Linked  in  a  golden  spell  together  !" 

Oh  !  Vidal's  very  soul  did  weep 

Whene'er  that  music,  like  a  charm, 
Brought  back  from  their  unlistening  sleep 

The  kissing  lip  and  clasping  arm. 
But  quiet  tears  are  worth,  to  some, 
The  richest  smiles  in  Christendom  : 
And  Vidal,  though  in  folly's  ring 
He  seemed  so  weak  and  wild  a  thing, 
Had  yet  an  hour,  when  none  were  by. 
For  reason's  thought,  and  passion's  sigh. 
And  knew  and  felt,  in  heart  and  brain, 
The  Paradise  of  buried  pain  ! 


126  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  Vidal  rose  at  break  of  day, 

And  found  his  heart  unbroken ; 
And  told  his  beads,  and  went  away, 

On  a  steed  he  had  bespoken ; 
His  bonnet  he  drew  his  eyelids  o'er. 

For  tears  were  like  to  blind  him  : 
And  he  spurred  Sir  Guy  o'er  mount  and  moor, 
With  a  long  dull  journey  all  before, 

And  a  short  gay  squire  behind  him. 
And  the  neighborhood  much  marvel  had  ; 

And  all  who  saw  did  say, 
The  weather  and  the  roads  were  bad, 
And  either  Vidal  had  run  mad, 

Or  Guy  had  run  away  ! 
Oh !  when  a  cheek  is  to  be  dried, 

All  pharmacy  is  folly ; 
And  Vidal  knew,  for  he  had  tried, 
There's  nothing  like  a  rattling  ride 

For  curing  melancholy  ! 
Three  days  he  rode  all  mad  and  mute  ; 

And  when  the  sun  did  pass, 
Three  nights  he  supp'd  upon  dry  fruit, 

And  slept  upon  wet  grass. 
Beneath  an  oak,  whose  hundred  years 
Had  formed  fit  shade  for  talk  or  tears, 
On  the  fourth  day  he  lay  at  noon, 
And  put  his  gilt  guitar  in  tune ; 

When  suddenly  swept  by, 
In  gold  and  silver  all  arrayea, 
A  most  resplendent  cavalcade , 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  127 

Baron  and  Beauty,  Knave  and  Knight, 
And  lips  of  love,  and  eyes  of  light, 

All  blended  dazzlingly. 
Ah !  all  the  world  that  day  came  out. 
With  horse  and  horn,  and  song  and  shout ; 
And  belles  and  bouquets  gayly  bloomed, 
And  all  were  proud,  and  all  perfumed, 
And  gallants,  as  the  humor  rose, 
Talked  any  nonsense  that  they  chose. 
And  damsels  gave  the  reins  for  fun 
Alike  to  palfrey  and  to  pun. 
It  chanced  no  lady  had  been  thrown. 
No  heir  had  cracked  his  collar-bone, 
So  pleasure  laughed  on  every  cheek, 
And  naught,  save  saddles,  dreamed  of  pique. 
And  brightest  of  that  brilliant  train, 
With  jeweled  bit,  and  gilded  rein, 
And  pommel  clothed  in  gorgeous  netting, 
And  courser  daintily  curvetting, 
Girt  round  with  gallant  Cavaliers, 
Some  deep  in  love,  and  some  in  years, 
Half  exquisites  and  half  absurds, 
All  babbling  of  their  beasts  and  birds, 
Quite  tired  of  trumpeting  and  talking, 
The  Baroness  returned  from1  hawking. 


The  lady  halted  ;  well  she  might  ? 

For  Vidal  was  so  fair, 
You  would  have  thought  some  god  of  light 

Had  walked  to  take  the  air ; 


128  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Bare  were  both  his  delicate  hands, 

And  the  hue  on  his  cheek  was  high, 
As  woman's  when  she  understands 

Her  first  fond  lover's  sigh  ; 
And  desolate  very,  and  very  dumb, 

And  rolling  his  eyes  of  blue, 
And  rubbing  his  forehead,  and  biting  his  thumb, 

As  lyrists  and  lovers  do. 
Like  Queen  Titania's  darling  pet, 

Or  Oberon's  wickedest  elf, 
He  lay  beside  a  rivulet, 

And  looked  beside  himself; 
And  belles  full  blown,  and  beaux  full  drest, 

Stood  there  with  smirk  and  smile, 
And  many  a  finger,  and  many  a  jest, 

Were  pointed  all  the  while. 

Then  Vidal  came,  and  bent  his  knees 

Before  the  lady  there, 
And  raised  his  bonnet,  that  the  breeze 

Might  trifle  with  his  hair  ; 
And  said,  he  was  a  nameless  youth, 
Had  learned  betimes  to  tell  the  truth, 
Could  greet  a  friend,  and  grasp  a  foe, 
Could  take  a  jest,  and  give  a  blow, 
Had  no  idea  of  false  pretences, 
Had  lost  his  father,  and  his  senses, 
Was  travelling  over  land  and  sea, 
Armed  with  guitar  and  gallantry  ; 
And  if  her  will  found  aught  of  pleasure 
In  trifling  soul,  and  tinkling  measure, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  120 

He  prayed  that  she  would  call  her  own 
His  every  thought,  and  every  tone. 

"  Bonne  grace,  good  Mary,  and  sweet  St.  John  !" 
That  haughty  dame  did  say  ; 

"  A  goodly  quarry  I  have  won, 

In  this  our  sport  to-day  ! 
A  precious  page  is  this  of  mine, 
To  carve  my  meat  and  pour  my  wine, 
To  loose  my  greyhound's  ringing  chain. 
And  hold  my  palfrey's  gaudy  rein, 
And  tell  strange  tales  of  moody  sprites, 
Around  the  hearth,  on  winter  nights. 
Marry  !  a  wilful  look,  and  wild  ! 
But  we  shall  tame  the  wayward  child, 
And  dress  his  roving  locks  demurely, 
And  tie  his  jesses  on  securely." 

She  took  from  out  her  garment's  fold 
A  dazzling  gaud  of  twisted  gold ; 

She  raised  him  from  his  knee  ; 
The  diamond  cross  she  gravely  kiss'd, 
And  twined  the  links  around  his  wrist 

With  such  fine  witchery, 
That  there  he  kneeled,  and  met  her  glance 
In  silence  and  a  moveless  trance, 
And  saw  no  sight,  and  heard  no  sound, 
And  knew  himself  more  firmly  bound 
Than  if  a  hundred  weight  of  steel 
Had  fettered  him  from  head  to  heel  f 


THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  from  that  moment  Vidal  gave 

His  childish  fancy  up, 
Became  her  most  peculiar  slave. 
And  wore  her  scarf,  and  whipped  her  knave, 

And  filled  her  silver  cup. 
She  was  a  widow  :  on  this  earth 
It  seemed  her  only  task  was  mirth ; 
She  had  no  nerves  and  no  sensations, 
No  troubling  friends  nor  poor  relations; 
No  gnawing  grief  to  feel  a  care  for, 
No  living  soul  to  breathe  a  prayer  for. 
Ten  years  ago  her  lord  and  master 
Had  chanced  upon  a  sad  disaster ; 
One  night  his  servants  found  him  lying 
Speechless  or  senseless,  dead  or  dying, 
With  shivered  sword  and  dabbled  crest, 
And  a  small  poniard  in  his  breast, 
And  nothing  further  to  supply 
The  slightest  hint  of  how  or  why. 
As  usual,  in  such  horrid  cases, 
The  men  made  oath,  the  maids  made  faces  ; 
All  thought  it  most  immensely  funny 
The  murderer  should  have  left  the  money, 
And  showed  suspicions  in  dumb  crambo, 
And  buried  him  with  fear  and  flambeau. 


Clotilda  shrieked  and  swooned,  of  course, 

Grew  very  ill,  and  very  hoarse, 

Put  on  a  veil,  put  oif  a  rout, 

Turned  all  her  cooks  and  courtiers  out, 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  131 

And  Jived  two  years  on  water-gruel, 
And  drank  no  wine,  and  used  no  fuel. 
At  last,  when  all  the  world  had  seen 
How  very  virtuous  she  had  been, 
She  left  her  chamber,  dried  her  tears, 
Kept  open  house  for  Cavaliers, 
New  furnished  all  the  cob-webbed  rooms. 
And  burned  a  fortune  in  perfumes. 
She  had  seen  six-and-thirty  springs, 
And  still  her  blood's  warm  wanderings 
Told  tales  in  every  throbbing  vein 
Of  youth's  high  hope,  and  passion's  reign, 
And  dreams  from  which  that  lady's  heart 
Had  parted,  or  had  seemed  to  part. 
She  had  no  wiles  from  cunning  France, 
Too  cold  to  sing,  too  tall  to  dance  ; 
But  yet,  where'er  her  footsteps  went, 
She  was  the  Queen  of  Merriment : 
She  called  the  quickest  at  the  table, 
For  Courcy's  song,  or  Comine's  fable, 
Bade  Barons  quarrel  for  her  glove, 
And  talked  with  Squires  of  ladie-love, 
And  hawked  and  hunted  in  all  weathers, 
And  stood  six  feet — including  feathers. 

Her  suitors,  men  of  swords  and  banners, 
Were  very  guarded  in  their  manner*. 
And  e'en  when  heated  by  the  jorum 
Knew  the  strict  limits  of  decorum. 
Well  had  Clotilda  learned  the  glance 
That  checks  a  lover's  first  advance ; 


132  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

That  brow  to  her  was  given 
That  chills  presumption  in  its  birth, 
And  mars  the  madness  of  our  mirth, 
And  wakes  the  reptile  of  the  earth 

From  the  vision  he  hath  of  Heaven. 
And  yet  for  Vidal  she  could  find 
No  word  or  look  that  was  not  kind, 
With  him  she  walked  in  shine  or  shower, 
And  quite  forgot  the  dinner  hour, 
And  gazed  upon  him,  till  he  smiled, 
As  doth  a  mother  on  a  child. 
Oh  !  when  was  dream  so  purely  dreamed  ! 
A.  mother  and  a  child  they  seemed : 
In  warmer  guise  he  loved  her  not ; — 

And  if,  beneath  the  stars  and  moon, 
He  lingered  in  some  lonely  spot 

To  play  her  fond  and  favorite  tune, 
And  if  he  fed  her  petted  mare, 
And  made  acquaintance  with  her  bear, 
And  kissed  her  hand  whene'er  she  gave  it 
And  kneeled  him  down,  sometimes,  to  crave  it, 
'Twas  partly  pride,  and  partly  jest, 

And  partly  'twas  a  boyish  whim, 
And  that  he  liked  to  see  the  rest 

Look  angrily  on  her  and  him. 
And  that — in  short  he  was  a  boy, 
And  doted  on  his  last  new  toy. 

It  chanced  that  late,  one  summer's  gloaming, 
The  lady  and  the  youth  were  roaming, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  133 

In  converse  close  of  those  and  these, 

Beneath  a  long  arcade  of  trees ; 

Tall  trunks  stood  up  on  left  and  right, 

Like  columns  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

Breezeless  and  voiceless  ;  and  on  high, 
Where  those  eternal  pillars  ended, 
The  silent  boughs  so  closely  blended 

Their  mirk,  unstirring  majesty, 

That  superstition  well  might  run, 

To  wander  there  from  twelve  to  one, 

And  call  strange  shapes  from  heaven  or  hell, 

Of  cowl  and  candle,  book  and  bell, 

And  kneel  as  in  the  vaulted  aisle 

Of  some  time-honored  Gothic  pile, 

To  pay  her  weary  worship  there 

Of  counted  beads,  and  pattered  prayer. 

Clotilda  had,  for  once,  the  vapors, 
And  when  the  stars  lit  up  their  tapers, 
She  said  that  she  was  very  weary — 
She  liked  the  place,  it  was  so  dreary — 
The  dew  was  down  on  grass  and  flower, 

'Twas  very  wet — 'twas  very  wrong — 
But  she  must  rest  for  half  an  hour, 

And  listen  to  another  song. 

Then  many  a  tale  did  Viclal  tell 
Of  warrior's  spear,  and  wizard's  spell ; 
How  that  Sir  Brian  le  Bleu  had  been 
Cup-bearer  to  a  fairy  queen  ; 


134  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  how  that  a  hundred  years  did  pass, 
And  left  his  brow  as  smooth  as  glass, 
Time  on  his  form  marked  no  decay, 
He  stole  not  a  single  charm  away, 

He  could  not  blight 

That  eye  of  light, 
Nor  turn  those  raven  ringlets  gray. 

But  Brian's  love  for  a  mortal  maid, 

Was  written  and  read  in  a  magic  sign, 
When  Brian  slipped  on  the  moonlight  glade, 

And  spilled  the  fairy's  odorous  wine ; 
And  she  clipped  her  fingers  in  the  can, 

And  sprinkled  him  with  seven  sprinkles, 
And  he  went  from  her  presence  a  weary  man, 

A  withering  lump  of  rheum  and  wrinkles. 

And  how  that  Satan  made  a  bond 

With  Armonell  of  Trebizond — 

A  bond  that  was  written  at  first  in  tears, 

And  torn  at  last  in  laughter — 
To  be  his  slave  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  his  sovereign  ever  after. 

And  oh !  those  years,  they  fleeted  fast, 
And  a  single  year  remained  at  last, 
A  year  for  crouching  and  for  crying, 
Between  his  frolic  and  his  frying. 

"Toil  yet  another  toil,"  quoth  he, 
"  Or  else  thy  prey  I  will  not  be, 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  1  Ho 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  servant  mine, 

And  call  me  back 

The  faded  track 

Of  years  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  !" 
And  Satan  hied  to  his  home  again 
On  the  wings  of  a  blasting  hurricane, 
And  left  old  Armonell  to  die, 
And  sleep  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 

In  mockery  of  the  Minstrel's  skill 
The  Lady's  brow  grew  darker  still ; 

She  trembled  as  she  lay, 
And  o'er  her  face,  like  fitful  flame, 
The  feverish  color  went  and  came, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  tune, 
Her  black  eyes  stared  upon  the  moon 

With  an  unearthly  ray. 

"  Good  Vidal," — as  she  spoke  she  leant 
So  wildly  o'er  the  instrument 
That  wondering  Vidal  started  back, 
For  fear  the  strings  should  go  to  wrack— 
"  Good  Vidal,  I  have  read  and  heard 

Of  many  a  haunted  heath  and  dell, 
Where  potency  of  wand  or  word, 

Or  chanted  rhyme,  or  written  spell, 
Hath  burst,  in  such  an  hour  as  this, 

The  cerements  of  the  rotting  tomb, 
And  waked  from  wo,  or  torn  from  bliss, 

The  heritors  of  chill  and  gloom, 


136  THF,      TROUBADOUR. 

Until  they  walked  upon  the  earth, 
Unshrouded,  in  a  ghastly  mirth, 
And  frightened  men  with  soundless  cries, 
And  hueless  cheeks,  and  rayless  eyes. 
Such  power  there  is ! — if  such  be  thine, 
Why,  make  to-night  that  sound  or  sign  ; 
And  while  the  vapory  sky  looks  mirk 
In  horror  at  our  midnight  work, 
We  two  will  sit  on  two  green  knolls, 
And  jest  with  un embodied  souls, 
And  mock  at  every  moody  sprite 
That  wanders  from  his  bed  to-night." 

The  boy  jumped  up  in  vast  surprise, 
And. rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  eyes, 
And  quite  unable  to  reflect, 
Made  answer  much  to  this  effect : 
"  Lady ! — the  saints  befriend  a  sinner  ! 
Lady  ! — she  drank  too  much  at  dinner ! 
1  know  a  rhyme,  and — ghosts  forsooth ! 
I  used  to  sing  it  in  my  youth  ; 
'Twas  taught  me — curse  my  foolish  vanity  ! 
By  an  old  wizard — stark  insanity  ! 
Who  came  from  Tunis — 'tis  the  hock  ! 
At  a  great  age  and — twelve  o'clock  ! 
He  wore — oh,  Lord  ! — a  painted  girdle, 
For  which  they  burnt  him  on  a  hurdle ; 
He  had  a  charm,  but — what  the  deuce  ! 
It  wasn't  of  the  slightest  use ; 
There's  not  a  single  ghost  that  cares 
For — mercy  on  me  !  how  she  stares !" 


THE     TROUBADOUK* 

And  then  again  he  sate  him  down, 
For  fiercer  fell  Clotilda's  frown, 
And  played,  abominably  ill, 
And  horribly  against  his  will. 

"  Spirits,  that  walk  and  wail  to-night, 

I  feel,  I  feel  that  ye  are  near ; 
There  is  a  mist  upon  my  sight, 
There  is  a  murmur  in  mine  ear. 
And  a  dark,  dark  dread 
Of  the  lonely  dead, 
Creeps  through  the  whispering  atmosphere ! 


"  Ye  hover  o'er  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  old  oaks  stand  bereft  and  bare ; 
Ye  hover  o'er  the  moonlight  seas, 

And  the  tall  masts  rot  in  the  poisoned  air; 
Ye  gaze  on  the  gate 
Of  earthly  state, 
And  the  ban-doe  shivers  in  silence  there. 


"  Come  hither  to  me  upon  your  cloud, 
And  tell  rne  of  your  bliss  or  pain, 
And  let  me  see  your  shadowy  shroud, 
And  colorless  lip,  and  bloodless  vein  ; 
Where  do  ye  dwell, 
In  heaven  or  hell, 
And  why  do  ye  wander  on  earth  again? 


138  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

"  Tell  to  me  where  and  how  ye  died, 

Fell  ye  in  darkness,  or  fell  ye  in  day, 
On  lorn  hill-side,  or  roaring  tide, 
In  gorgeous  feast,  or  rushing  fray  1 
By  bowl  or  blow, 
From  friend  or  foe, 
Hurried  your  angry  souls  away  1 

"  Mute  ye  come,  and  mute  ye  pass, 

Your  tale  untold,  your  shrift  unshriven ; 
But  ye  have  blighted  the  pale  grass, 

And  scared  the  ghastly  stars  from  heaven  ; 
And  guilt  hath  known 
Your  voiceless  moan, 
And  felt  that  the  blood  is  unforgiven  !" 

He  paused ;  for  silently  and  slow 

The  lady  left  his  side  ; 
It  seemed  her  blood  had  ceased  to  flow, 
For  her  cheek  was  as  white  as  the  morning  snow 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  had  died. 
She  gazed  upon  some  form  of  fright — 
But  it  was  not  seen  of  Vidal's  sight ; 
She  drank  some  sound  of  hate  or  fear—  • 
But  it  was  not  heard  of  Vidal's  ear  ; 
"  Look  !  look  !"  she  said  ;  and  Vidal  spoke — 
"  Why  !  zounds  !  it's  nothing  but  an  oak  !" 

"  Valence  !"  she  muttered,  "  I  will  rise  ; 

Ay  !  turn  not  those  dead  orbs  on  mine ; 
Fearless  to-night  are  these  worn  eyes, 
And  nerveless  is  that  arm  of  thine. 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  139 

Thrice  hast  thou  fleeted  o'er  my  path  ; 

And  I  would  hear  thy  dull  lips  say, 
Is  it  in^ sorrow,  or  in  wrath, 

That  thou  dost  haunt  my  lonely  way  ? 
Ay  !  frown  not !  heaven  may  blast  me  now, 

In  this  dark  hour,  in  this  cold  spot ; 
And  then — I  can  but  be  as  thou, 

And  hate  thee  still,  and  fear  thee  not !" 
She  strode  two  steps,  and  stretched  her  hand, 
In  attitude  of  stern  command ; 
The  tremor  of  her  voice  and  tread 
Had  more  of  passion  than  of  dread, 
The  net  had  parted  from  her  hair, 
The  locks  fell  down  in  the  powerless  air, 
Her  frame  with  strange  convulsion  rocked — - 
And  Vidal  was  intensely  shocked. 
The  lady  drew  a  long  low  sigh, 
As  if  some  voice  had  made  reply, 
Though  Vidal  could  not  catch  a  word, 
And  thought  it  horribly  absurd. 
"  Remember  it "? — avenging  power  ! 

I  ask  no  word,  I  need  no  sign, 
To  teach  me  of  that  withering  hour, 

That  linked  this  wasted  hand  in  thine  ! 
He  was  not  there ! — I  deemed  him  slain — 
And  thine  the  guilt — and  mine  the  pain  ! 
There  are  memorials  of  that  day 
Which  time  shall  never  blot  away, 
Unheeded  prayer,  unpardoaed  sin, 
And  smiles  without,  and  flames  within, 


140  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  broken  heart,  and  ruined  fame 
And  glutted  hate,  and  dreaded  shame, 
And  late  remorse,  and  dreams,  and  fears, 
And  bitter  and  enduring  tears  !" 


She  listened  there  another  space, 
And  stirred  no  feature  of  her  face, 
Though  big  drops,  ere  she  spoke  again, 
Fell  from  her  clammy  brow  like  rain : 
At  last  she  glanced  a  wilder  stare, 
And  stamped  her  foot,  and  tore  her  hair. 
"  False  fiend  !  thou  liest,  thou  hast  lied  ! 

He  was,  what  thou  couldst  never  be — 
In  anguish  true,  in  danger  tried — 

Their  friend  to  all — my  god  to  me  ! 
He  loved — as  thou  couldst  never  love — 

Long  years — and  not,  till  then,  in  guilt ; 
Nay  !  point  not  to  the  wailing  grove, 

I  know  by  whom  the  blood  was  spilt, 
I  saw  the  tomb,  and  heard  the  knell, 

And  life  to  me  was  lorn  and  blighted, 
He  died — and  vengeance  watches  well ! 

He  died — and  thou  wert  well  requited !" 

Again  she  listened  : — full  five  score 
You  might  have  counted  duly  o'er — 
And  then  she  laughed ;  so  fierce  and  shrill 
That  laughter  echoed  o'er  the  hill, 
That  Vidal  deemed  the  very  ground 
Did  shake  at  its  unearthly  sound. 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  141 

"  I  do  not  tremble !  be  it  so ! — 
Or  here  or  there  !  in  bliss  or  wo  ! — 
Yea !  let  it  be  !  and  we  will  meet, 

Where  never "  and  at  Vidal's  feet 

She  sank,  as  senseless  and  as  cold 
As  if  her  death  were  two  days  old ; 
And  Vidal,  who  an  hour  before 
Had  voted  it  a  horrid  bore, 
His  silken  sash  with  speed  unlaced, 
And  bound  it  round  her  neck  and  wraist, 
And  bore  her  to  her  castle-gate, 
And  never  stopped  to  rest  or  bait, 
Speeding  as  swiftly  on  his  track 
As  if  nine  fiends  were  at  his  back. 

Then  rose  from  fifty  furious  lungs 
A  Babel  of  discordant  tongues : 
"  Jesu  !  the  Baroness  is  dead  ! — 
Shouldn't  her  Ladyship  be  bled  ? — 
Her  fingers  are  as  cold  as  stone  ! — 
And  look  how  white  her  lips  are  grown  (. 
A  dreadful  thing  for  all  who  love  her  ! 
'Tis  ten  to  one  she  won't  recover  ! — 
Ten  1 — did  you  ever,  Mrs.  Anne  1 
Ten  rogues  against  one  honest  man  ! — 
How  master  Vidal  must  have  fought ! 
It's  what  I  never  should  have  thought ; 
He  seems  the  sickliest  thing  alive ; — 
They  say  he  killed  and  wounded  five  !• — 
Is  master  Vidal  killed  and  wounded  ? 
I  trust  the  storv  is  unfounded  ! — 


142  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

I  saw  him  on  his  legs  just  now, — 

What !  sawed  his  legs  off?  well,  T  vow — 

Peace,  babbler,  peace  !  you  see  you've  shocked  her! 

Help  !  ho  ! — cold  water  for  the  Doctor  ! 

Her  eyes  are  open  ! — how  they  blink ! 

Why,  Doctor,  do  you  really  think, 

My  Lord,  we  never  think  at  all ; 

I'll  trouble  you  to  clear  the  Hall, 

And  check  all  tendency  to  riot, 

And  keep  the  Castle  very  quiet ; 

Let  none  but  little  Bertha  stay  ; 

And — try  to  keep  the  Friar  away  !" 

Poor  Vidal,  who,  amid  the  rout, 

Had  crept  in  cautious  silence  out, 

Reeled  to  his  chamber  in  the  staggers, 

And  thought  of  home,  and  dreamed  of  daggers. 

Day  dawned  :  the  Baroness  was  able 
To  beam  upon  the  breakfast  table, 
As  well  as  could  be  well  expected, 
Before  the  guests  were  half  collected. 
'  A  fainting  fit ; — a  thing  of  course  ; — 
In  sooth  it  might  have  ended  worse  ; 
Exceedingly  obliged  to  Vidal  ; — 
Pray,  had  the  groom  repaired  her  bridle  ? 
She  wralked  too  late  ; — it  was  a  warning ; 
And — \vho  was  for  the  chase  this  morning  ?" 

Days  past,  and  weeks  :  Clotilda's  mien 
Was  gay  as  it  before  had  been, 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  143 

And  only  once  or  twice  her  glance 

Fell  darkly  on  his  countenance, 

And  gazed  into  his  eyes  of  blue, 

As  if  she  read  his  young  heart  through : 

At  length  she  mildly  hinted — "  Surely 

Vidal  was  looking  very  poorly — 

He  never  talked — had  parted  quite 

With  spirits,  and  with  appetite — 

She  thought  he  wanted  change  of  air, 

It  was  a  shame  to  keep  him  there — 

She  had  remarked  the  change  with  sorrow, 

And well,  he  should  set  out  to-morrow." 

The  morrow  came,  't  was  glorious  weather, 

And  all  the  household  flocked  together 

To  hold  his  stirrup  and  his  rein, 

And  say,  "  Heaven  speed  !"  with  might  and  main. 

Clotilda  only  said  "  Farewell !" 

And  gave  her  hand  to  kiss  and  clasp ; 
He  thought  it  trembled,  as  it  fell 

In  silence  from  his  lip  and  grasp, 
And  yet  upon  her  cheek  and  brow 
There  dwelt  no  flush  of  passion  now  ; 
Only  the  kind  regret  was  there 
Which  severed  friends  at  parting  wear, 
And  the  sad  smile  and  glistening  eye 
Seemed  naught  to  shun,  and  naught  defy. 

Farewell !"  she  said,  and  so  departed  ; 
And  Vidal  from  his  reverie  started, 
And  blessed  his  soul,  and  cleared  his  throat, 
And  crossed  his  forehead — and  the  moat. 


144  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

CANTO    II. 

ALL  milliners  who  start  from  bed 
To  gaze  upon  a  coat  of  red, 

Or  listen  to  a  drum, 
Know  very  well  the  Paphian  Queen 
Was  never  yet  at  Paphos  seen, 

That  Cupid's  all  a  hum, 
That  minstrels  forge  confounded  lies, 
About  the  Deities  and  skies, 
That  torches  all  go  out  sometimes, 
That  flowers  all  fade  except  in  rhymes, 
That  maids  are  seldom  shot  with  arrows- 
And  coaches  never  drawn  by  sparrows. 

And  yet,  fair  cousin,  do  not  deem 

That  all  is  false  which  poets  tell 
Of  Passion's  first  and  dearest  dream, 

Of  haunted  spot,  and  silent  spell, 
Of  long  low  musing,  such  as  suits 

The  terrace  on  your  own  dark  hill, 
Of  whispers  which  are  sweet  as  lutes, 

And  silence  which  is  sweeter  still ; 
Believe,  believe — for  May  shall  pass, 

And  summer  sun  and  winter  shower 
Shall  dim  the  freshness  of  the  grass, 

And  mar  the  fragrance  of  the  flower — 
Believe  it  all,  whate'er  you  hear 

Of  plighted  vow,  and  treasured  token, 
And  hues  which  only  once  appear, 

And  words  which  only  once  are  spoken, 


THE      TROUBADOUR. 

And  prayers  whose  natural  voice  is  song, 

And  schemes  that  die  in  wild  endeavor, 
And  tears  so  pleasant,  you  will  long 

To  weep  such  pleasant  tears  forever, 
Believe  it  all,  believe  it  all  ! 

Oh!  Virtue's  frown  is  all  divine; 
And  Folly  hides  his  happy  thrall 

In  sneers  as  cold  and  false  as  mine  ; 
And  Reason  prates  of  wrong  and  right, 

And  marvels  hearts  can  break  or  bleed,. 
And  flings  on  all  that's  warm  and  bright 

The  winter  of  his  icy  creed ; 
But  when  the  soul  has  ceased  to  glow, 

And  years  and  cares  are  coming  fast, 
There's  nothing  like  young  love  !  no,  no  ! 

There's  nothing  like  young  love  at  last ! 

The  Convent  of  St.  Ursula 
Has  been  in  a  marvellous  fright  to-day ; 
The  nuns  are  all  in  a  terrible  pother 
Scolding  and  screaming  at  one  another; 
Two  or  three  pale,  and  two  or  three  red, 
Two  or  three  frightened  to  death  in  bed, 
Two  or  three  waging  a  \vordy  war 
With  the  wide-eared  Saints  of  the  Calendar. 
Beads  and  lies  have  both,  been  told, 
Tempers  are  hot,  and  dishes  are  cold ; 
Celandine  rends  her  last  new  veil, 
Leonore  babbles  of  horns  and  tail  ; 
Celandine  proses  of  songs  and  slips, 

V'iolette  blushes  and  bites  her  lips: 

7 


145 


146  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Oh !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day, 

With  the  Convent  of  St.  Ursula? 

But  the  Abbess  has  made  the  chiefest  din, 

And  cried  the  loudest  cry  ; 
She  has  pinned  her  cap  with  a  crooked  pin, 
And  talked  of  Satan  and  of  sin, 


And  set  her  coif 


awr 


.'      5 


And  she  can  never  quiet  be  ; 

But  ever  since  the  Matins, 
In  gallery  and  scullery, 
And  kitchen  and  refectory, 

She  tramps  it  in  her  pattens ; 
Oh  !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula'? 


Thrice  in  the  silence  of  eventime 
A  desperate  foot  has  dared  to  climb 

Over  the  Convent  gate  ; 
Thrice  a  venturous  voice  and  lute 
Have  dared  to  wake  their  amorous  suit, 
Among  the  Convent  flowers  and  fruit, 

Abominably  late : 

And  thrice,  the  beldames  know  it  well, 
From  out  the  lattice  of  her  cell, 
To  listen  to  that  murmured  measure 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  pleasure, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  eyelid  wet, 
Hath  leaned  the  novice  Violette  ; 
And  oh !  you  may  tell  from  her  mournful  gaze, 
Her  vision  hath  been  of  those  clear  days, 


THETROUBADOUH.  147 

When  happily  o'er  the  quiet  lawn, 

Bright  with  the  dew's  most  heavenly  sprinkles, 
She  scared  the  pheasant,  and  chased  the  fawn, 

Till  a  smile  came  o'er  her  father's  wrinkles, 
Or  stood  beside  that  water  fair, 

Where  moonlight  slept  with  a  ray  so  tender, 
That  every  star  which  glistened  there, 

Glistened,  she  thought,  with  a  double  splendor, 
And  oh !  she  loved  the  ripples'  play, 

As  to  her  feet  the  truant  rovers 
Wandered  and  went  with  a  laugh  away, 

Kissing  but  once,  like  wayward  lovers. 
And  oh  !  she  loved  the  night-wind's  moan, 

And  the  dreary  watch-dog's  lonely  yelling, 
And  the  sentinel's  unchanging  tone, 

And  the  chapel  chime  so  sadly  knelling, 
And  the  echoes  from  the  Castle  hall, 

Of  circling  song  and  noisy  gladness, 
And,  in  some  silent  interval, 

The  nightingale's  deep  voice  of  sadness. 
Alas !  there  comes  a  winter  bleak 

On  the  lightest  joy,  and  the  loveliest  flower : 
And  the  smiles  have  faded  on  Violette's  cheek. 

And  the  roses  have  withered  in  Violette's  bower, 
But  now  by  the  beautiful  turf  and  tide 

Poor  Violette's  heart  in  silence  lingers ; 
And  the  thrilling  tears  of  memory  glide 

Thro'  the  trembling  veil  and  the  quivering  fingers. 
Yet  not  for  these,  for  these  alone, 

That  innocent  heart  beats  high  to-day  ; 


148  TUB      TROUBADOUR. 

And  not  for  these  the  stifled  moan 

Is  breathed  in  such  thick  passionate  tone, 

That  not  the  lips  appear  to  pray. 
But  you  may  deem  those  murmurs  start 
Forth  from  the  life-strings  of  the  heart, 
So  wild  and  strange  is  that  long  sigh, 
So  full  of  bliss  and  agony  ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  the  lovely  boy, 

Sweet  Vidal,  with  his  face  of  joy — 

The  careless  mate  of  all  the  glee 

That  shone  upon  her  infancy — 

The  baby-lover,  who  had  been 

The  sceptred  King,  where  she  was  Queen, 

On  Childhood's  dream-encircled  strand, 

The  undisputed  Fairy-land ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  she  thinks  of  him, 

The  lord  of  every  wicked  whim, 

Who  dared  Sir  Prinsamour  to  battle, 

And  drove  away  De  Clifford's  cattle, 

And  sang  an  Ave  at  the  feast, 

And  made  wry  faces  at  the  Priest, 

And  ducked  the  Duchess  in  the  sea, 

And  tore  Sir  Roland's  pedigree. 

She  thinks  of  him — the  forehead  fair, 
The  ruddy  lip,  and  glossy  hair — 
The  mountains,  where  they  roved  together, 
In  life's  most  bright  and  witching  weather— 
The  wreck  they  watched  upon  the  coast — 
The  ruin  where  they  saw  the  ghost — 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  149 

The  fairy  tale  he  loved  to  tell— 

The  serenade  he  sang  so  well ; 

And  then  she  turns  and  sees  again 

The  naked  wall,  and  grated  pane, 

And  frequent  winks  and  frequent  frowns, 

And  'broidered  books,  and  'broidered  gowns, 

And  plaster  saints  and  plaster  patrons, 

And  three  impracticable  matrons. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  Nun : 

Sad,  delicate,  and  five  feet  one ; 

Her  face  was  oval,  and  her  eye 

Looked  like  the  Heaven  in  Italy, 

Serenely  blue,  and  softly  bright, 

Made  up  of  languish  and  of  light! 

And  her  neck,  except  where  the  locks  of  brown, 

Like  a  sweet  summer  mist,  fell  droopingly  down, 

Was  as  chill  and  as  white  as  the  snow,  ere  the  earth 

Has  sullied  the  hue  of  its  heavenly  birth  ; 

And  through  the  blue  veins  you  might  see 

The  pure  blood  wander  silently, 

Like  noiseless  eddies,  that  far  below 

In  the  glistening  depths  of  a  calm  lake  flow  : 

Her  cold  hands  on  her  bosom  lay ; 

And  her  ivory  crucifix,  cold  as  they, 

Was  clasped  in  a  fearful  and  fond  caress, 

As  if  she  shrank  from  its  holiness, 

And  felt  that  hers  was  the  only  guilt 

For  which  no  healing  blood  was  spilt : 

And  tears  were  bursting  all  the  while  ; 

Yet  now  and  then  a  vacant  smile 


150  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Over  her  lips  would  come  and  go — 

A  very  mockery  of  wo — 

A  brief,  wan  smile — a  piteous  token 

Of  a  warm  love  crush'd,  and  a  young  heart  broken  ! 

"Marry  come  up  !"  said  Celandine, 
Whose  nose  was  ruby  red, 

"  From  venomous  cates  and  wicked  wine 

A  deadly  sin  is  bred. 
Darkness  and  anti-phlogistic  diet, 
These  will  keep  the  pulses  quiet ; 
Silence  and  solitude,  bread  and  water — 
So  must  we  cure  our  erring  daughter !" 
I  have  dined  at  an  Alderman's  board, 
I  have  drunk  with  a  German  lord, 
But  richer  was  Celandine's  own  pate 
Than  Sir  William's  soup  on  Christmas  day, 
And  sweeter  the  flavor  of  Celandine's  flask 
Than  the  loveliest  cup  from  a  Rhenish  cask  ! 

"  Saints  keep  us  !"  said  old  Winifrede, 
"  Saints  keep  and  cure  us  all ! 
And  let  us  hie  to  our  book  and  head. 

Or  sure  the  skies  will  fall  ! 
Is  she  a  Heathen  or  is  she  a  Hindoo, 
To  talk  with  a  silly  boy  out  of  the  window  r' 
Was  eve]'  such  profaneness  seen  ? 
Pert  minx  ! — and  only  just  sixteen  !" 
I  have  talked  with  a  fop  who  has  fought  twelve  duels, 
Six  for  an  heiress,  and  six  for  her  jewels ; 


THE      T  R  O  U  B  A  D  O  U  K  .  151 

1  have  prosed  with  a  reckless  bard,  who  rehearses 

Every  day  a  thousand  verses  ; 

But  oh  !  more  marvellous  twenty  times 

Than  the  bully's  lies,  or  the  blockhead's  rhymes, 

Were  the  scurrilous  tales,  which  Scandal  told 

Of  Winifrede's  loves  in  the  days  of  old  ! 


The  Abbess  lifted  up  her  eye, 

And  laid  her  rosary  down, 
And  sigh'd  a  melancholy  sigh, 

And  frown'd  an  angry  frown. 
"There's  a  cell  in  the  dark  cold  ground, 

Where  sinful  passions  wither  : 
Vapory  dews  lie  damp  around, 
And  merriment  of  sight  or  sound 

Can  work  no  passage  thither : 
Other  scene  is  there,  I  trow, 
Than  suits  a  love-sick  maiden's  vow  ; 
For  a  death-watch  makes  a  weary  tune, 
And  a  glimmering  lamp  is  a  joyless  moon, 
And  a  couch  of  stone  is  a  dismal  rest, 
And  an  aching  heart  is  a  bitter  guest! 
Maiden  of  the  bosom  light, 
There  shall  thy  dwelling  be  to-night ; 
Mourn  and  meditate,  fast  and  pray, 
And  drive  the  evil  one  away. 
Axe  and  cord  were  fitter  doom, 
Desolate  grave  and  mouldering  tomb; 
But  the  merciful  faith  that  speaks  the  sentence, 
Joys  in  the  dawn  of  a  soul's  repentance, 


152  TUP]      TROUBADOUR. 

And  the  eyes  may  shed  sweet  tears  for  them, 
Whom  the  hands  chastise,  and  the  lips  condemn  !" 
I  have  set  my  foot  on  the  hallowed  spot, 
Where  the  dungeon  of  trampled  France  is  not; 
I  have  heard  men  talk  of  Mr.  Peel  ; 
I  have  seen  men  walk  on  the  Brixton  wheel; 
And  'twere  better  to  feed  on  frogs  and  fears, 
Guarded  by  griefs  and  grenadiers, 
And  'twere  better  to  tread  all  day  and  night, 
With  a  rogue  on  the  left,  and  a  rogue  on  the  right, 
Than  lend  our  persons  or  our  purses 
To  that  old  lady's  tender  mercies  ! 


"Ay  !  work  your  will !"  the  young  girl  said  ; 
And  as  she  spoke  she  raised  her  head, 
And  for  a  moment  turned  aside, 

To  check  the  tear  she  could  not  hide ; 

'Ay  !  work  your  will!  — I  know  you  all,' 

Your  holy  aims  and  pious  arts, 
And  how  you  love  to  fling  a  pall 

On  fading  joys,  and  blighted  hearts ; 
And  if  these  quivering  lips  could  tell 

The  story  of  our  bliss  and  wo, 
And  how  we  loved — Oh  !  loved,  as  well 

As  ever  mortals  loved  below — 
And  how  in  purity  and  truth 

The  flower  of  early  joy  was  nurst, 
Till  sadness  nipp'd  its  blushing  youth, 

And  holy  mummery  call'd  it  curst — 


THETKOUBADOUR.  153 

You  would  but  watch  my  sobs  and  sighs. 

With  shaking  head,  and  silent  sneers, 
And  deck  with  smiles  those  soulless  eyes, 

When  mine  should  swrell  with  bitter  tears  ! 
But  work  your  will !     Oh !  life  and  limb 

May  wither  in  that  house  of  dread, 
Where  horrid  shapes  and  shadows  dim 

Walk  nightly  round  the  slumberer's  head ; 
The  sight  may  sink,  the  tongue  may  fail, 

The  shuddering  spirit  long  for  day, 
And  fear  may  make  these  features  pale, 

And  turn  these  boasted  ringlets  gray ; 
But  not  for  this,  oh  !  not  for  this, 

The  heart  will  lose  its  dream  of  gladness ; 
And  the  fond  thought  of  that  last  kiss 

Will  live  in  torture — yea  !  in  madness  ! 
And  look !     I  will  not  fear  or  feel 

The  all  your  hate  may  dare  or  do  ; 
And,  if  I  ever  pray  and  kneel, 

I  will  not  kneel  and  pray  to  you !" 


If  you  had  seen  that  tender  cheek, 

Those  eyes  of  melting  blue, 
You  would  not  have  thought  in  a  thing  so  weak, 

Such  a  fiery  spirit  grew. 
But  the  trees  which  summer's  breezes  shake, 

Are  shivered  in  winter's  gale  ; 
And  a  meek  girl's  heart  will  bear  to  break, 

When  a  proud  man's  truth  would  fail. 

7* 


154  T  H  E      T  R  0  U  B  A  D  O  U  K  . 

Never  a  word  she  uttered  more ; 

They  have  led  her  down  the  stair, 
And  left  her  on  the  dungeon  floor, 

To  find  repentance  there ; 
And  naught  have  the}'  set  beside  her  bed, 

Within  that  chamber  dull, 
But  a  lonely  lamp,  and  a  loaf  of  bread, 

A  rosary  and  skull. 
The  breast  is  bold  that  grows  not  cold, 

With  a  strong  convulsive  twinge, 
As  the  slow  door  creeps  to  its  sullen  hold, 

Upon  its  mouldering  hinge. 
That  door  was  made  by  the  cunning  hand 
Of  an  artist  from  a  foreign  land  ; 
Human  skill  and  heavenly  thunder 
Shall  not  win  its  wards  asunder. 
The  chain  is  fix'd,  and  the  bolt  is  fast, 
And  the  kind  old  Abbess  lingers  last, 
To  mutter  a  prayer  on  her  bended  knee, 
And  clasp  to  her  girdle  the  iron  key. 

But  then,  oh  then  began  to  run 

Horrible  whispers  from  nun  to  nun  : 
"  Sister  Amelia,"—"  Sister  Anne," 
"  Do  tell  us  how  it  all  began  ;" 
"  The  youth  was  a  handsome  youth,  that's  certain, 

For  Bertha  peeped  from  behind  the  curtain  :" 
"  As  sure  as  I  have  human  eyes, 

It  was  the  devil  in  disguise ; 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  155 

His  hair  hanging  down  like  threads  of  wire — 
And  his  mouth  breathing  smoke,  like  a  haystack 

on  fire — 
And  the  ground  beneath  his  footstep  rocking." — 

"  Lord  !  Isabel,  how  very  shocking  !" 

"  Poor  Violette  !  she  was  so  merry  \ 
I'm  very  sorry  for  her  ! — very  !" 

"Well !  it  was  worth  a  silver  tester, 
To  see  how  she  frown'd  when  the  Abbess  bless'd 
her  ;"— 

"  Was  Father  Ansel m  there  to  shrive  ? 
For  I'm  sure  she'll  never  come  out  alive !" 

"  Dear  Elgitha,  don't  frighten  us  so  !" 

"  It's  just  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Since  Father  Peter  was  put  in  the  cell 
For  forgetting  to  ring  the  vesper  bell ; 
Let  us  keep  ourselves  from,  mortal  sin  ! 
He  went  not  out  as  lie  went  in !" 

"  No  !  and  he  lives  there  still,  they  say, 
In  his  cloak  of  black,  and  his  cowl  of  gray, 
Weeping,  and  wailing,  and  walking  about, 
With  an  endless  grief,  and  an  endless  gout, 
And  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  kerchief  of  lawn, 
And  ringing  his  bell  from  dusk  to  dawn !" 

"  Let  us  pray  to  be  saved  from  love  and  spectres  !" — 

"  From  the  haunted  cell !" — "And  the  abbess's  lec 
tures  !" 

The  garish  sun  has  gone  away, 
And  taken  with  him  the  toils  of  day  ; 
Foul  ambition's  hollow  schemes, 
Busy  labor's  golden  dreams, 


\  56  T  II  E      T  K  O  U  B  A  D  O  U  K  . 

Angry  strife,  and  cold  debate, 

Plodding  care,  and  plotting  hate. 

But  in  the  nunnery  sleep  is  fled 

From  many  a  vigilant  hand  and  head  ; 

A  watch  is  set  of  friars  tall, 

Jerome  and  Joseph,  and  Peter  and  Paul  ; 

And  the.  chattering  girls  are  all  lock'd  up ; 

And  the  wrinkled  old  abbess  is  gone  to  sup 

On  mushrooms  and  sweet  muscadel, 

In  the  fallen  one's  deserted  cell. 

And  now  't  is  love's  most  lovely  hour, 

And  silence  sits  on  earth  and  sky, 
And  moonlight  flings  on  turf  and  tower 

A  spell  of  deeper  witchery  ; 
And  in  the  stillness  and  the  shade 
All  things  and  colors  seem  to  fade  : 
And  the  garden  queen,  the  blushing  rose, 
Has  bowed  her  head  in  a  soft  repose  ; 
And  weary  zephyr  is  gone  to  rest 
In  the  flovv'ry  grove  he  loves  the  best. 
Nothing  is  heard  but  the  long,  long  snore, 
Solemn  and  sad,  of  the  watchmen  four, 
And  the  voice  of  the  rivulet  rippling  by, 
And  the  nightingale's  evening  melody, 
And  the  drowsy  wing  of  the  sleepless  bat, 
And  the  mew  of  the  gard'ner's  tortoise-shell  cat. 

Dear  cousin  !  a  harp  like  yours  has  power 
Over  the  soul  in  every  hour; 


THE      I  R  O  U  B  A  D  O  U  iv ,  157 

And  after  breakfast,  when  Sir  G. 
Has  been  discussing  news  and  tea, 
And  eulogized  his  coals  and  logs, 
And  told  the  breeding  of  his  dogs, 
And  hurl'd  anathemas  of  pith 
Against  the  sect  of  Adam  Smith, 
And  handed  o'er  to  endless  shame 
The  voters  for  the  sale  of  game. 
'Tis  sweet  to  fly  from  him  and  vapors, 
And  those  interminable  papers. 
And  waste  an  idle  hour  or  two 
With  dear  Rossini,  and  with  you. 

But  those  sweet  sounds  are  doubly  sweet, 

In  the  still  nights  of  June, 
When  song  and  silence  seem  to  meet, 

Beneath  the  quiet  moon ; 
When  not  a  single  leaf  is  stirr'd, 
By  playful  breeze  or  joyous  bird, 
And  echo  shrinks  as  if  afraid 
Of  the  faint  murmur  she  has  made. 
Oh  !  then  the  spirit  of  music  roves, 
With  a  delicate  step  through  the  myrtle  groves. 
And  still  wherever  he  flits,  he  flings 
A  thousand  charms  from  his  purple  wings. 
And  where  is  that  discourteous  wight, 
Who  would  not  linger  through  the  night 
Listening  ever,  lone  and  mute, 
To  the  murmur  of  his  mistress'  lute, 
And  courting  those  bright  phantasies, 
Which  haunt  the  dreams  of  waking  eyes  ? 


158  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

He  came  that  night,  the  Troubadour. 

While  the  four  fat  friars  slept  secure, 

And  gazed  on  the  lamp  that  sweetly  glisten'd, 

Where  he  thought  his  mistress  listen'd ; 

Low  and  clear  the  silver  note 

On  the  thrill'd  air  seem'd  to  float ; 

Such  might  be  an  angel's  moan, 

Half  a  whisper,  half  a  tone. 

"  So  glad  a  life  was  never,  love, 

As  that  which  childhood  leads, 
Before  it  learns  to  sever,  love, 

The  roses  from  the  weeds : 
When  to  be  very  duteous,  love, 

Is  all  it  has  to  do ; 
And  every  flower  is  beauteous,,  love, 

And  every  folly  true. 

"  And  you  can  still  remember,  love, 

The  buds,  that  decked  our  play, 
Though  destiny's  December,  love. 

Has  whirled  those  buds  away  : 
And  you  can  smile  through  tears,  love, 

And  feel  a  joy  in  pain, 
To  think  upon  those  years,  love, 

You  may  not  see  again. 

'•  When  we  mimick'd  the  Friar's  howls,  love, 

Cared  nothing  for  his  creeds, 

Made  bonnets  of  his  cowls,  love, 

And  bracelets  of  his  beads ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  159 

And  gray-beards  looked  not  awful,  love, 

And  grandames  made  no  din, 
And  vows  were  not  unlawful,  love, 

And  kisses  were  no  sin. 

"  And  do  you  never  dream,  love, 

Of  that  enchanted  well, 
Where  under  the  moon-beam,  love, 

The    fairies  wove  their  spell '; 
How  oft  we  saw  them  greeting,  love, 

Beneath  the  blasted  tree, 
And  heard  their  pale  feet  beating,  love, 

To  their  own  minstrelsy  ! 

"  And  do  you  never  think,  love, 

Of  the  shallop,  and  the  wave, 
And  the  willow  on  the  brink,  love, 

Over  the  poacher's  grave  ? 
Where  always  in  the  dark,  love, 

We  heard  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  the  dogs  were  wont  to  bark,  love, 

Whenever  they  went  by  1 

"Then  gayly  shone  the  heaven,  love, 

On  life's  untroubled  sea, 
And  Vidal's  heart  was  given,  love, 

,  In  happiness  to  thee- ; 
The  sea  is  all  benighted,  love. 

The    heaven  has  ceased  to  shine ; 
The  heart  is  seared  and  blighted,  love. 
But  still  the  heart  is  thine  !'' 


160  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

He  paused  and  looked ;  he  paused  and  sighed ; 

None  appear'dT  and  none  replied: 

All  was  still  but  the  water's  wail, 

And  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  nightingale, 

And  the  insects  buzzing  among  the  briers, 

And  the  nasal  note  of  the  four  fat  friars. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  'tis  passion's  hour  ; 

The  world  is  gone  to  sleep ; 
And  nothing  wakes  in  brake  or  bower, 

But  those  who  love  and  weep : 
This  is  tne  golden  time  and  weather, 
When  songs  and  sighs  go  out  together, 
And  minstrels  pledge  the  rosy  wine 
To  lutes  like  this,  and  lips  like  thine ! 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  my  courser's  flight 

Is  like  the  rushing  breeze, 
And  the  kind  moon  has  said  '  Good  night !' 

And  sunk  behind  the  trees : 
The  lover's  voice — the  loved  one's  ear — 
There's  nothing  else  to  speak  and  hear  ; 
And  we  will  say,  as  on  we  glide, 
That  nothing  lives  on  earth  beside ! 

"  Oh  fly  with  me !  and  we  will  wing 

Our  white  skiff  o'er  the  waves, 
And  hear  the    tritons  revelling, 

Among  their  coral  caves; 
The  envious  mermaid,  when  we  pass, 
Shall  cease  her  song,  and  drop  her  glass  • 


THE      T  R  O  U  B  A  D  0  U  U  .  161 

For  it  will  break  her  very  heart, 
To  see  how  fair  and  clear  thou  art. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  and  we  will  dwell 

Far  over  the  green  seas, 
Where  Sadness  rings  no  parting  knell 

For  moments  such  as  these  ! 
Where  Italy's  unclouded  skies 
Look  brightly  down  on  brighter  eyes, 
Or  where  the  wave-wed  city  smiles, 
Enthroned  upon  her  hundred  isles. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  by  these  sweet  strings 

Swept  o'er  by  Passion's  fingers — 
By  all  the  rocks,  and  vales,  and  springs — 

Where  Memory  lives  and  lingers — 
By  all  the  tongue  can  never  tell — 
By  all  the  heart  has  told  so  well — 
By  all  that  has  been  or  may  be — 
And  by  Love's  self— Oh  fly  with  me  !" 

He  paused  again — no  sight  or  sound  ! 
The  still  air  rested  all  around  ; 
He  look'd  to  the  tower,  and  he  look'd  to  the  tree, 
Night  was  as  still  as  night  could  be  ; 
Something  he  mutter'd  of  Prelate  and  Pope 
And  took  from  his  mantle  a  silken  rope; 
Love  dares  much,  and  Love  climbs  well  ! 
He  stands  by  the  Abbess  in  Violette's  cell. 

He  put  on  a  mask,  and  he  put  out  the  light ; 
The  Abbess  was  dressed  in  a  veil  of  white  ; 


162  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Not  a  look  he  gave,  not  a  word  he  said  ; 
The  pages  are  ready,  the  blanket  is  spread  ; 
He  has  clasped  his  arm  her  waist  about, 
And  lifted  the  screaming  Abbess  out : 
"  My  horse  is  fleet,  and  my  hand  is  true, 
And  my  Squire  has  a  bow  of  deadly  yew  ; 
Away,  and  away,  over  mountain  and  moor ! 
Good  luck  to  the  love  of  the  gay  Troubadour  !" 

"What !  rode  away  with  the  Abbess  behind  ? 

Lord  !  sister  !  is  the  Devil  blind  V 
"  Full  fourscore  winters  !" — "  Fast  and  pray  ! 

For  the  powers  of  darkness  fight  to-day  !" 
"  1  sha'nt  get  over  the  shock  for  a  week  !" — 
"  Did  any  one  hear  our  Mother  shriek  7" — 
"Do  shut  your  mouth  !" — "Do  shut  the  cell !" 
"What  a  villanous,  odious,  sulphury  smell !" 
"  Has  the  Evil  One  taken  the  Mass-book  too  V 
"  Ah  me  !  what  will  poor  little  Violette  do  ? 

She  has  but  one  loaf  since  seven  o'clock ; 

And  no  one  can  open  that  horrible  lock  ; 

And  Satan  will  grin  with  a  fiendish  glee, 

When  he  finds  the  Abbess  has  kept  the  key  !" 
"How  shall  we  manage  to  sleep  to-night  ?" 
"I  wouldn't  for  worlds  put  out  my  light  !" 
"I'm  sure  I  shall  die  if  I  hear  but  a  mole  stir !" 
"I'll  clap  St.  Ursula  under  my  bolster  !" 

But  oh  !  the  pranks  that  Vidal  played, 
When  he  found  what  a  bargain  his  blindness  had 
made ! 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  163 

Wilful  and  wild — half  in  fun,  half  on  fire, 
He  stared  at  the  Abbess,  and  storm'd  at  the  Squire  ! 
Consigned  to  perdition  all  silly  romancers, 
Ask'd  twenty  strange  questions,  and  staid  for  no 

answers, 

Raving,  and  roaring,  and  laughing  by  fits, 
And  driving  the  old  woman  out  of  her  wits. 

There  was  a  jousting  at  Chichester  ; 
It  had  made  in  the  country  a  mighty  stir, 
And  all  that  was  brave,  and  all  that  was  fair, 
And  all  that  was  neither,  came  trooping  there; 
Scarfs  and  scars,  and  frays  and  frowns, 
And  flow'ry  speeches,  and  flow'ry  crowns. 
A  hundred  knights  set  spear  in  rest 
For  the  lady  they  deemed  the  loveliest, 
And  Vidal  broke  a  lance  that  day 
For  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

There  was  a  feast  at  Arundel ; 
The  town-clerk  tolled  a  ponderous  bell, 
And  nothing  was  there  but  row  and  rout, 
And  toil  to  get  in,  and  toil  to  get  out, 
And  sheriffs  fatter  than  their  venison, 
And  belles  that  never  staid  for  benison. 
The  red,  red  wine  was  mantling  there, 
To  the  health  of  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  Vidal  drain'd  the  cup  that  day 
To  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 
There  was  a  wedding  done  at  Brain  her  ; 
The  town  was  full  of  myrrh  and  amber; 


164  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

And  the  boors  were  roasting  valorous  beeves, 
And  the  boys  were  gathering  myrtle  leaves, 
And  the  bride  was  choosing  her  finest  flounces, 
And  the  bridegroom  was  scattering  coin  by  ounces, 
And  every  stripling  danced  on  the  green 
With  the  girl  he  had  made  his  idol  queen  ; 
And  Vidal  led  the  dance  that  day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

Three  days  had  pass'd  when  the  Abbess  came  back  ; 

Her  voice  was  out  of  tune, 
And  her  new  white  veil  was  gone  to  wrack, 

And  so  were  her  sandal  shoon. 
No  word  she  said  ;  they  put  her  to  bed, 
With  a  pain  in  her  heels,  and  a  pain  in  her  head, 
And  she  talk'd  in  her  delirious  fever 

Of  a  high-trotting  horse,  and  a  black  deceiver ; 
Of  music  and  merriment,  love  and  lances, 
Bridles  and  blasphemy,  dishes  and  dances. 

They  went  with  speed  to  the  dungeon-door ; 

The  air  was  chill  and  damp ; 
And  the  pale  girl  lay  on  the  marble  floor, 

Beside  the  dying  lamp. 
They  kissed  her  lips,  they  called  her  name, 
No  kiss  returned,  no  answer  came ; 
Motionless,  lifeless,  there  she  lay, 
Like  a  statue  rent  from  its  base  away  I 
They  said  by  famine  she  had  died  : 
Yet  the  bread  untasted  lay  beside  ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  165 

And  her  cheek  was  as  full,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 

As  it  had  been  when  warmth  was  there, 

And  her  eyes  were  unclosed,  and  their  glassy  rays 

Were  fixed  in  a  desolate,  dreamy  gaze, 

As  if  before  their  orbs  had  gone 

Some  sight  they  could  not  close  upon  ; 

And  her  bright  brown  locks  all  gray  were  grown ; 

And  her  hands  were  clenched,  and  cold  as  stone  ; 

And  the  veins  upon  her  neck  and  brow — 

But  she  was  dead  ! — what  boots  it  how  *? 

In  holy  ground  she  was  not  laid ; 

For  she  had  died  in  sin, 
And  good  St.  Ursula  forbade 

That  such  should  enter  in  ; 
But  in  a  calm  and  cold  retreat 

They  made  her  place  of  rest. 
And  laid  her  in  her  winding-sheet, 

And  left  her  there  unblest ; 
And  set  a  small  stone  at  her  head, 

Under  a  spreading  tree  ; 
"  Orate" — that  was  all  it  said — 
"  Orate  hie  pro  me!" 

And  Vidal  came  at  night,  alone, 

And  tore  his  shining  hair, 
And  laid  him  down  beside  the  stone, 

And  wept  till  day-break  there. 

"Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well, 
Most  beautiful  of  earthly  things. 


106  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

I  will  not  bid  thy  spirit  stay, 

Nor  link  to  earth  those  glittering  wings, 
That  burst  like  light  away  ! 

I  know  that  thou  art  gone  to  dwell 

In  the  sunny  home  of  the  fresh  day  beam, 
Before  Decay's  unpitying  tread 

Hath  crept  upon  the  dearest  dream- 
That  ever  came  and  fled; 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thec  well ; 

And  go  thy  way,  all  pure  and  fair, 
Into  the  starry  firmament ; 

And  wander  there  with  the  spirits  of  air, 
As  bright  and  innocent ! 


"Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well  ! 
Strange  feet  will  be  upon  thy  clay, 

And  never  stop  to  sigh  or*  sorrow  ; 
Yet  many  wept  for  thee  to-day, 

And  one  will  weep  to-morrow : 
Alas  !  that  melancholy  knell 
Shall  often  wake  my  wondering  ear, 

And  thou  shalt  greet  me,  for  a  while, 
Too  beautiful  to  make  me  fear, 

Too  sad  to  let  me  smile ! 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  know  that  heaven  for  thee  is  won  ; 

And  yet  I  feel  I  would  resign 
Whole  ages  of  my  life,  for  one — 

One  little  hour,  of  thine ! 


THE      TROUBADOUR. 

"Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
See,  I  have  been  to  the  sweetest  bowers, 

And  culled  from  garden  and  from  heath 
The  tenderest  of  all  tender  flowers, 

And  blended  in  my  wreath 

The  violet  and  the  blue  harebell, 
And  one  frail  rose  in  its  earliest  bloom  ; 

Alas  !  I  meant  it  for  thy  hair, 
And  now  I  fling  it  on  thy  tomb, 

To  weep  and  wither  there  ! 

Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  love,  in  fragrant  shade, 

Droop,  droop  to-night,  thou  blushing  token; 
A  fairer  flower  shall  never  fade, 

Nor  a  fonder  heart  be  broken !" 


>-v'  OF  T 

I  TTT'IM 

^      *       V        :•'.•/     B**8    «*  f     ^-        fc 


167 


168  THE     TROUBADOUR. 


CANTO    III.* 

IT  is  the  hour,  the  lonely  hour, 

Which  desolate  rhymers  love  to  praise, 
When  listless  they  lie  in  brake  or  bower, 

In  dread  of  their  duns,  or  in  dreams  of  their  bays; 
The  glowing  sun  has  gone  away 
To  cool  his  face  in  the  ocean  spray, 

And  the  stars  shine  out  in  the  liquid  blue, 
And  the  beams  of  the  moon  in  silence  fail 
On  rock  and  river,  wood  and  wall, 
Flinging  alike  on  each  and  all 

A  silver  ray  and  a  sober  hue. 
The  village  casements  all  are  dark, 
The  chase  is  done  in  the  princoly  park, 
The  scholar  has  closed  the  volume  old, 
And  the  miser  has  counted  the  buried  gold ; 
There  is  not  a  foot  and  there  is  not  a  g:ile 
To  shake  the  roses  in  Ringmore  Yale; 
There  is  not  a  bird,  the  groves  along, 
To  wake  the  night  with  his  gushing  song ; 
Nothing  is  heard  but  sounds  that  render 
The  rest  which  they  disturb  more  tender ; 
The  glassy  river  wanders  still, 
Making  low  music  round  the  hill ; 

*  THE  TROUBADOUR  was  never  finished.    Fragments  only  of  the 
Third  Canto  have  been  found,  written  upon  stray  leaves  of  paper. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  169 

And  the  last  faint  drops  of  the  shower  that  foil 
While  the  monks  were  ringing  the  vesper  bell 
Are  trickling  yet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Like  the  big  slow  drops  of  an  untold  grief. 

At  that  late  hour  a  little  boat 

Came  dancing  down  the  wave ; 
There  were  none  but  the  Moon  to  see  it  float ; 

And  she,  so  very  grave, 
Looked  down  upon  the  quiet  spot 
As  if  she  heard  and  heeded  not 
The  eloquent  vows  which  passion  drew 
From  lips  of  beauty's  tenderest  hue, 
And  saw  without  the  least  surprise 
The  glances  of  the  youthful  eyes, 
Which,  in  the  warm  and  perilous  weather, 
Were  gazing  by  night  on  the  stream  together. 


Sometimes,  upon  a  gala  night, 
Beneath  the  torches'  festal  light, 
When  I  have  seen  your  footsteps  glance, 
Sweet  sister,  through  the  merry  dance, 
Light  as  the  wind  that  scarcely  heaves 
The  softest  of  the  soft  rose-leaves 

In  summer's  sunniest  hour, — 
Sometimes,  upon  the  level  shore 
Washed  by  the  sea-wave  just  before, 
When  I  have  seen  your  palfrey  glide 
8 


170  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Along  the  margin  of  the  tide, 

As  fleet  as  some  imagined  form 

That  smiles  in  cairn,  or  frowns  in  storm, 

Before  the  minstrel's  bower, — 
One  moment  I  have  ceased  to  doubt 
The  tales  which  poets  pass  about, 
Of  fairies  and  their  golden  wings, 
Their  earthward  whims  and  wanderings, 
The  mummeries  in  which  they  traded, 
The  houses  where  they  masqueraded, 
The  half  unearthly  tone  they  spoke, 
The  half  unearthly  thought  they  woke, 
The  rich  they  plagued,  the  poor  they  righted, 
The  heads  they  posed,  the  hearts  they  blighted ! 

So  fancied  Vidal,  when  he  gazed 

Upon  a  hundred  glancing  eyes, 
While  high  in  hall  the  torches  blazed, 

And  all  the  blended  witcheries 
That  clothe  the  revel  of  the  night, 

The  dance's  most  voluptuous  rounds, 
And  Beauty's  most  inthralling  light, 

And  music's  most  entrancing  sounds, 
And  many  a  tale,  and  many  n  song, 

Which  only  passion  sings  and  tells, 
And  dreams,  most  dazzling  when  most  wrong, 

Wove  o'er  him  their  delicious  spells. 
It  was  a  long  and  spacious  hall ; 

The  limner's  hand  had  wandered  there, 
And  peopled  half  the  lofty  wall 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  l7l 

With  wondrous  forms  of  great  and  fair ; 
And  in  small  niches  shapes  of  stone 

Looked  soft  and  white,  like  winter  snow, 
Queen  Venus  with  her  haunted  zone, 

Prince  Cupid  with  his  bended  bow  ; 
And  there  were  brooks  of  essenced  waters ; 

And  mighty  mirrors  half  a  score 
To  tell  the  Baron's  lovely  daughters 

What  all  their  maids  had  told  before ; 
And  here  an  amorous  lord  was  singing 

Of  honor's  reign,  or  battle's  rout; 
And  there  a  giggling  page  was  flinging 

Handfuls  of  odorous  flowers  about ; 
And  wine  and  wit  were  poured  together 

From  many  a  lip,  from  many  a  can  ; 
And  barons  bowed  beneath  a  feather, 

And  beauties  blushed  behind  a  fan ; 
And  all  were  listening,  laughing,  chattering, 

Playing  the  fiddle  and  the  fool, 
And  metaphorically  flattering, 

According  to  established  rule. 
"  If  that  bright  glance  did  gleam  on  me, 
How  scarred  and  scorched  my  soul  would  be  ! 
For  even  as  the  golden  sun" — 
"  My  Lord  of  Courcy,  pray  have  done  !"- 
"  I  would  I  were  a  little  bird, 
That  I  might  evermore  be  heard 
Discoursing  love,  when  morning's  air"  — 
"  Bonne  grace,  Sir  Knight,  I  would  you  were  !"- 
"  Mort  de  ma  vie  !  the  sea  is  deep, 


172  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  Dover  cliffs  are  very  steep, 

And  if  I  spring  into  the  main," — 

"  Sir  Knight,  you'll  scarce  spring  out  again  !" 

"  This  breast  of  mine  is  all  a  book  ; 

And  if  her  beauteous  eyes  would  look 

Upon  the  pale  transparent  leaves, 

And  mark  how  all  the  volume  grieves," — 

"  Sweet  Count,  who  cares  what  tales  it  tel's? 

The  title's  all  your  mistress  spells."- 

"  My  faithful  shield,  my  faithful  heart ! 

Oh  !  both  are  pierced  with  many  a  dart ; 

And,  Lady,  both,  through  flood  and  flame, 

Bear  uneffaced  thy  beauteous  name ; 

And  both  are  stainless  as  a  lake," — 

"And  both  are  very  hard  to  break  !" 

Thus  deftly  all  did  play  their  part, 

The  valiant  and  the  fair, 
And  Vidal's  was  the  lightest  heart 

Of  all  that  trifled  there. 
Some  six-and-twenty  springs  had  passed 

In  more  of  smiles  than  tears ; 
And  boyhood's  dreams  had  fleeted  fast 

With  boyhood's  fleeting  years  ! 
His  voice  was  sweet,  but  deeper  now 

Than  when  its  songs  were  new ; 
And  o'er  his  cheek,  and  o'er  his  brow, 

There  fell  a  darker  hue  ; 
His  eye  had  learned  a  calmer  ray, 

By  browner  ringlets  shaded  ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  3  7 

And  from  his  lips  the  sunny  play 

Of  their  warm  smile  had  faded  : 
And,  out  alas  !  the  perished  thrill 

Of  feeling's  careless  flashes, 
The  glistening  flames,  that  now  were  chill 

In  darkness,  dust,  and  ashes, 
The  joys  that  wound,  the  pains  that  bless, 

Were  all,  were  all  departed ; 
And  he  was  wise  and  passionless, 

And  happy  and  cold-hearted. 
It  was  not  that  the  brand  of  sin 
Had  stamped  its  deadly  blot  within  ; 
That  riches  had  been  basely  won, 
Or  midnight  murder  darkly  done  ; 
That  Valor's  ardent  glow  had  died, 
Or  Honor  lost  its  truth  and  pride  : 
Oh,  no  !  but  Vidal's  joy  and  grief 
Had  been  too  common,  and  too  brief ! 
The  weariness  of  human  things 
Had  dried  affection's  silent  springs, 
And  round  his  very  heart  had  curled 
The  poisons  of  the  drowsy  world. 
And  he  had  conned  the  bitter  lie 
Of  Fashion's  dull  philosophy  ; 
How  friendship  is  a  schoolboy's  theme, 
And  constancy  a  madman's  dream, 
And  majesty  a  mouldering  bust, 
And  loveliness  a  pinch  of  dust. 
And  so, — for  when  the  wicked  jest 
The  renegade  blasphemes  the  best,— 


174  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

He  crushed  the  hopes  which  once  he  felt, 
And  mocked  the  shrines  where  once  he  knelt, 
And  taught  that  only  fools  endure 
To  find  aught  human  good  and  pure. 

And  yet  his  heart  was  very  light, 

His  taste  was  very  fine  ; 
His  rapier  and  his  wit  were  bright, 

His  attitudes  divine  : 
He  taught  how  snowy  arms  should  rise, 

How  snowy  plumes  should  droop  ; 
And  published  rhapsodies  on  sighs, 

And  lectures  upon  soup  ; 
He  was  the  arbiter  of  bets, 

The  fashioner  of  phrases  ; 
And  harpers  sang  his  canzonets, 

And  peeresses  his  praises. 
And  when,  at  some  high  dame's  command, 
Upon  the  lyre  he  laid  his  hand, 
As  now  to-night,  and  flung  aside 
His  silken  mantle's  crimson  pride, 
And  o'er  the  strings  so  idly  leant, 
That  you  might  think  the  instrument 
Un  waked  by  any  touch  replied 
To  all  its  master  said  or  sighed — 
All  other  occupations  ceased ; 
The  revellers  roso  from  cup  and  feast, 
Young  pages  paused  from  scattering  posies. 
Old  knights  forgot  to  blow  their  noses, 
And  daughters  smiled,  and  mothers  frowned, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  1 7  5 

And  peers  beat  time  upon  the  ground  ; 
And  Beauty  bowed  her  silent  praise, 
Which  is  so  dear  to  minstrel  lays  ; 
And  Envy  dropped  her  whispered  gall, 
Which  is  the  dearest  praise  of  all. 

That  night,  amid  the  motley  crowd, 

In  graver  than  his  wonted  mood, 
When  other  lips  were  gay  and  loud, 

The  Troubadour  had  silent  stood  : 
Perhaps  some  dreams  of  those  young  hours 

Whose  light  was  now  all  cold  and  dim, 
Some  visions  of  the  faded  flowers 

Whose  buds  had  bloomed  their  last  for  him, 
Came  in  their  secret  beauty  back, 

Like  fairy  elves,  whose  footsteps  steal 
Unseen,  unheard,  upon  their  track, 

Except  to  those  they  harm  or  heal. 
Oh  !  often  will  a  look  or  sigh, 

Unmarked  by  other  eyes  or  ears, 
Recall,  we  know  not  whence  or  why, 

Sad  thoughts  that  have  been  dead  for  years : 
For  sunset  leaves  the  river  warm 

Through  evening's  most  benumbing  chill ; 
And  when  the  present  cannot  charm, 

The  past  can  live  and  torture  still ! 

Yet  no>v,  as  if  the  secret  spell 

That  bound  his  inmost  soul  were  broken, 
He  taught  his  harp  a  lighter  swell 


176  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Than  ever  yet  its  strings  had  spoken ; 
And  those  who  saw,  and  watched  the  while, 

The  smile  that  came,  the  frown  that  faded, 
Could  hardly  tell  if  frown,  or  smile, 

Or  both,  or  neither,  masqueraded. 

"  Clotilda !  many  hearts  are  light, 

And  many  lips  dissemble  ; 
But  I  am  thine  till  priests  shall  fight, 

Or  Coeur  de  Lion  tremble ! — 
Hath  Jerome  burned  his  rosary, 

Or  Richard  shrunk  from  slaughter  ? 
Oh !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  to  I 
But  till  you  mean  your  hopes  to  die, 

Engrave  them  not  in  water ! 

"  Sweet  Ida,  on  my  lonely  way 

Those  tears  I  will  remember, 
Till  icicles  shall  cling  to  May, 

Or  roses  to  December ! — 
Are  snow-wreaths  bound  on  Summer's  brow? 

Is  drowsy  Winter  waking  ? 
Oh !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  lances,  and  a  lover's  vow, 

Were  only  made  for  breaking. 

"  Lenora,  I  am  faithful  still, 
By  all  the  saints  that  listen, 


THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Till  this  warm  heart  shall  cease  to  thrill, 

Or  these  wild  veins  to  glisten ! — 
This  bosom, — is  its  pulse  less  high  ? 
Or  sleeps  the  stream  within  it  ? 
Oh  !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  lovers  find  eternity 
In  less  than  half  a  minute. 

"  And  thus  to  thee  I  swear  to-night, 

By  thine  owrn  lips  and  tresses, 
That  I  will  take  no  further  flight, 

Nor  break  again  my  jesses  : 
And  wilt  them  trust  the  faith  I  vowed, 

And  dream  in  spite  of  warning  ? 
Oh  !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  go  and  lure  the  midnight  cloud, 

Or  chain  the  mist  of  morning. 

"These  words  of  mine,  so  false  and  bland, 

Forget  that  they  were  spoken  ! 
The  ring  is  on  thy  radiant  hand, — 
Dash  down  the  faithless  token ! 
And  will  they  say  that  Beauty  sinned, 
That  Woman  turned  a  rover  ? 
Oh  !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 

But  lover's  vows  are  like  the  wind, 
And  Vidal  is  a  Lover !" 
8* 


178  THE      T  U  O  U  1J  A  D  O  U  it . 

Ere  the  last  echo  of  the  words 

Died  on  the  lip  and  on  the  chords, 

The  Baron's  jester,  who  was  clever 

At  blighting  characters  forever, 

And  whom  all  people  thought  delightful, 

Because  he  was  so  very  spiteful, 

Stooped  down  to  tie  his  sandal's  string, 

And  found  by  chance  a  lady's  ring ; 

So  small  and  slight,  it  scarce  had  spanned 

The  finger  of  a  fairy's  hand, — 

Or  thine,  sweet  Rose,  whose  hand  and  wrist 

Are  much  the  least  I  ever  kissed : — 

Upon  the  ruby  it  enclosed 

A  bleeding  heart  in  peace  reposed, 

And  round  was  graved  in  letters  clear : 

"Let  by  the  month,  or  by  the  year." 

Young  Pacolet,  from  ring  and  song, 

Thought  something  might  be  somewhere  wrong, 

And  round  the  room  in  transport  flitted 

To  find  whose  hand  the  bawble  fitted. 

He  was  an  ugly,  dwarfish  knave. 
Most  gravely  wild,  most  wildly  grave ; 
It  seemed  that  Xature,  in  a  whim, 
Had  mixed  a  dozen  shapes  in  him ; 
One  arm  was  longer  than  the  other, 
One  leg  was  running  from  his  brother, 
And  one  dark  eye,  with  fondest  labor, 
Coquetted  with  his  fairer  neighbor : 
His  color  ever  came  and  went, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  179 

Like  clouds  upon  the  firmament, 

And  yet  his  cheeks,  in  any  weather, 

Were  never  known  to  blush  together  : 

To-day  his  voice  was  shrill  and  harsh, 

Like  homilies  from  Doctor  Marsh  ; 

To-morrow  from  his  rosy  lip 

The  sweetest  of  sweet  sounds  would  trip  ; 

Far  sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds, 

Or  the  first  lisp  of  Childhood's  words, 

Or  Zephyrs  soft,  or  waters  clear, 

Or  Love's  own  vow  to  Love's  own  ear. 

Such  were  the  tones  he  murmured  now, 

As,  wreathing  lip  and  cheek  and  brow 

Into  a  smile  of  wicked  glee, 

He  begged  upon  his  bended  knee 

That  maid  and  matron,  young  and  old, 

Would  try  the  glittering  hoop  of  gold. 

But  then,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 

All  sorts  &f  pretty  airs  and  graces 

Were  played  by  nymphs,  whose  hands  and  arms 

Had,  or  had  not,  a  host  of  charms : 

And  there  were  frowns,  as  wrists  were  bared, 

And  wonderings  "  how  some  people  dared," 

And  much  reluctance  and  disdain, 

Which  some  might  feel,  and  all  could  feign  ; 

And  witty  looks  and  whispered  guesses, 

And  running  into  dark  recesses, 

And  pointless  gibes,  and  toothless  chuckles, 

And  pinching  disobedient  knuckles, 


180  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

And  cunning  thefts  by  watchful  lovers, 
Which  filled  the  pockets  of  the  glovers. 
'Twas  very  vain  ;  it  seemed  that  all, 
Except  the  mistress  of  the  Hall, 
Had  done  the  utmost  they  could  do, 
And  made  their  fingers  black  and  blue, 
And  there  they  were,  the  gem  and  donor, 
Without  a  mistress,  or  an  owner. 

But  while  the  toy  was  vainly  trier], 

The  ugly  Baron's  handsome  bride 

Had  sate  apart  from  that  rude  game 

And  listened  to  the  sighs  of  flame, 

Which  followed  her  from  night  to  morning, 

In  spite  of  frowning  and  of  scorning. 

Bred  up  from  youth  with  naught  before  her 

But  humble  slave  and  fond  adorer, 

111  could  that  haughty  Lady  brook 

A  bantering  phrase  or  brazen  look ; 


Day  passed,  and  Night  came  hurrying  down 
With  her  heaviest  step,  and  her  darkest  frown ; 
Not  witchingly  mild,  as  when  she  hushes 
The  first  warm  thrill  of  woman's  blushes  ; 
Or  mellows  the  eloquent  murmur  made 
By  some  mad  minstrel's  serenade  ; 
But  robed  in  the  clouds  her  anger  flings 
O'er  the  murderer's  midnight  wanderings, 


THE     TROUBADOUR. 

The  stealthy  step,  and  the  naked  knife, 

The  sudden  blow,  and  the  parting  life! — 

On  the  snow  that  was  sleeping  its  frozen  sleep 

Round  cabin  and  castle,  white  and  deep, 

The  love-stricken  boy  might  have  wandered  far 

Ere  he  found  for  his  sonnet  a  single  star  ; 

And  over  the  copse,  and  over  the  dell, 

The  mantle  of  mist  so  drearily  fell, 

That  the  fondest  and  bravest  could  hardly  know 

The  smile  of  his  queen  from  the  sneer  of  his  foe. 

In  the  lonely  cot  on  the  lorn  hill-side 

The  serf  grew  pale  as  he  looked  on  his  bride  ; 

And  oft,  as  the  Baron's  courtly  throng 

Were  loud  in  the  revel  of  wine  and  song, 

The  blast  at  the  gate  made  such  a  din 

As  chano-ed  to  horror  the  mirth  within ! 

O 

%***$$ 

(1823-1824.) 


THE- LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

"  DEEP  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 

When  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  goes,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight, 
To  shiver  a  lance  for  his  Lady-love ! 

"  Lightly  he  couches  the  beaming  spear  ; 

His  mistress  sits  with  her  maidens  by, 
Watching  the  speed  of  his  swift  career, 

With  a  whispered  prayer  and  a  murmured  sigh, 

"  Far  from  me  is  the  gazing  throng, 

The  blazoned  shield,  and  the  nodding  plume ; 
Nothing  is  mine  but  a  worthless  song, 
A  joyless  life,  and  a  nameless  tomb." 

"  Nay,  dearest  Wilfrid,  lay  like  this 
On  such  an  eve  is  much  amiss : 
Our  mirth  beneath  the  new  May  moon 
Should  echoed  be  by  a  livelier  tune. 
WThat  need  to  thee  of  mail  and  crest, 
Of  foot  in  stirrup,  spear  in  rest? 
Over  far  mountains  and  deep  seas, 
Earth  hath  no  fairer  fields  than  these; 


LEUEND      OF     THE      HAUNTED      TREE.          183 

And  who,  in  Beaut)7 's  gaudiest  "bowers, 
Can  love  thee  with  more  love  than  ours'?" 


The  minstrel  turned  with  a  moody  look 

From  that  sweet  scene  of  guiltless  glee ; 
From  the  old  who  talked  beside  the  brook, 

And  the  young  who  danced  beneath  the  tree : 
Coldly  he  shrank  from  the  gentle  maid, 

From  the  chiding  look  and  the  pleading  tone ; 
And  he  passed  from  the  old  elm's  hoary  shade, 

And  followed  the  forest  path  alone. 
One  little  sigh,  one  pettish  glance, 

And  the  girl  comes  back  to  her  playmates  now. 
And  takes  her  place  in  the  merry  dance, 

With  a  slower  step  and  a  sadder  brow. 

"My  soul  is  sick,"  saith  the  wayward  boy, 
"  Of  the  peasant's  grief,  and  the  peasant's  joy  ; 
I  cannot  breathe  on  from  day  to  day. 
Like  the  insects  which,  our  wise  men  sny, 
In  the  crevice  of  the  cold  rock  dwell, 
Till  their  shape  is  the  shape  of  their  dungeon's  cell 
In  the  dull  repose  of  our  changeless  life, 
I  long  for  passion,  1  long  for  strife, 
As  in  the  calm  the  mariner  sighs 
For  rushing  waves  and  groaning  skies. 
Oh  for  the  lists,  the  lists  of  fame! 
Oh  for  the  herald's  glad  acclaim  ; 
For  floating  pennon  and  prancing  steed. 
And  Beauty's  wonder  at  Manhood's  deed  !" 


184    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  THEE. 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay ; 

More  years  than  man  can  count,  they  say, 

On  the  verge  of  the  dim  and  solemn  wood, 

Through  sunshine  and  storm  that  oak  had  stood. 

Yet  were  it  hard  to  trace  a  sign 

On  trunk  or  bough  of  that  oak's  decline  : 

Many  a  loving,  laughing  sprite, 

Tended  the  branches  by  day  and  by  night ; 

Fettered  the  winds  that  would  invade 

The  quiet  of  its  sacred  shade, 

And  drove  in  a  serried  phalanx  back 

The  red-eyed  lightning's  fierce  attack : 

So  the  leaves  of  its  age  were  as  fresh  and  as  green 

As  the  leaves  of  its  early  youth  had  been. 

Fretful  brain  and  turbid  breast 

Under  its  canopy  ill  would  rest ; 

For  she  that  ruled  the  revels  therein 

Loved  not  the  taint  of  human  sin  : 

Moody  brow  with  an  evil  eye 

Would  the  Queen  of  the  Fairy  people  spy  ; 

Sullen  tone  with  an  angry  ear 

Would  the  Queen  of  the  Fairy  people  hear. 

Oft  would  she  mock  the  worldling's  care 

O 

E'en  in  the  grant  of  his  unwise  prayer, 
Scattering  wealth  that  was  not  gain, 
Lavishing  joy  that  turned  to  pain. 
Pure  of  thought  should  the  mortal  be 
That  would  sleep  beneath  the  Haunted  Tree  ; 
That  night  the  minstrel  laid  him  down 
Ere  his  brow  relaxed  its  peevish  frown  ; 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

And  Slumber  had  bound  his  eyelids  fast, 
Ere  the  evil  wish  from  his  soul  had  passed. 
And  a  song  on  the  sleeper's  ear  descended, 

A  song  it  was  pain  to  hear,  and  pleasure, 
So  strangely  wrath  and  love  were  blended 

In  every  note  of  the  mystic  measure. 

"  I  know  thee,  child  of  earth  ; 

The  morning  of  thy  birth 
In  through  the  lattice  did  my  chariot  glide ; 

I  saw  thy  father  weep 

Over  thy  first  wild  sleep, 
I  rocked  thy  cradle  when  thy  mother  died. 

"  And  I  have  seen  thee  gaze 

Upon  these  birks  and  braes, 
Which  are  my  kingdoms,  with  irreverent  scorn ; 

And  heard  thee  pour  reproof 

Upon  the  vine-clad  roof, 
Beneath  whose  peaceful  shelter  thou  wast  born. 

"  I  bind  thee  in  the  snare 

Of  thine  unholy  prayer  ; 
I  seal  thy  forehead  with  a  viewless  seal : 

I  give  into  thine  hand 

The  buckler  and  the  brand, 
And  clasp  the  golden  spur  upon  thy  heel. 

"When  thou  hast  made  thee  wise 
In  the  sad  lore  of  sighs, 
When  the  world's  visions  fail  thee  and  forsake, 


86    LEGEND   OF  THE   HAUNTED  TREE. 

Return,  return  to  me, 
And  to  my  haunted  tree  ; 
The  charm  hath  bound  thee  now ;  Sir  Knight,  awake !" 

Sir  Isumbras,  in  doubt  and  dread, 

From  his  feverish  sleep  awoke, 
And  started  up  from  his  grassy  bed 

Under  the  ancient  oak. 
And  he  called  the  page  who  held  his  spear, 

And,  "  Tell  me,  boy,"  quoth  he, 
"  How  long  have  I  been  slumbering  here, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree  f — 
"  Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  I  chanced  to  throw 

A  stone  into  the  rill ; 
And  the  ripple  that  disturbed  its  flow 

Is  on  its  surface  still ; 
Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  thou  bad'st  me  sing 

King  Arthur's  favorite  lay  ; 
And  the  first  echo  of  the  string 

Has  hardly  died  away." 

"  How  strange  is  sleep  !"  the  young  knight  saH, 
As  he  clasped  the  helm  upon  his  head, 
And,  mounting  again  his  courser  black, 
To  his  gloomy  tower  rode  slowly  back  : 
"  How  strange  is  sleep  !  when  his  dark  spell  lie;-* 

On  the  drowsy  lids  of  human  eyes, 

The  years  of  a  life  will  float  along 

In  the  compass  of  a  page's  song. 

Methought  I  lived  in  a  pleasant  vale, 

The  haunt  of  the  lark  and  the  nightingale, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  T  R  E  E .    1  S  7 

Where  the  summer  rose  had  a  brighter  hue. 
And  the  noon-day  sky  a  clearer  blue, 
And  the  spirit  of  man  in  age  and  youth 
A  fonder  love,  and  a  firmer  truth. 
And  I  lived  on,  a  fair-haired  boy, 
In  that  sweet  vale  of  tranquil  joy  ; 

Until  at  last  my  vain  caprice 

Grew  weary  of  its  bliss  and  peace. 
And  one  there  was,  most  dear  and  fair, 
Of  all  that  smiled  around  me  there — 
A  gentle  maid,  with  a  cloudless  face, 
And  a  form  so  full  of  fairy  grace ; 
Who,  when  I  turned  with  scornful  spleen 
From,  the  feast  in  the  bower,  or  the  dance  on  the  green, 
Would  humor  all  my  wayward  will 
And  love  me  and  forgive  me  still. 
Even  now,  methinks,  her  smile  of  light 
Is  there  before  me,  mild  and  bright ; 
And  I  hear  her  voice  of  fond  reproof. 
Between  the  beats  of  my  palfrey's  hoof. 
'T  is  idle  all :  but  I  could  weep  ; — 
Alas  I"  said  the  knight,  "  how  strange  is  sleep  !" 
He  struck  with  his  spear  the  brazen  plate 
That  gleamed  before  the  castle  gate  ; 
The  torch  threw  high  its  waves  of  flame 
As  forth  the  watchful  menials  came  ; 
They  lighted  the  way  to  the  banquet  hall, 
They  hung  the  shield  upon  the  wall, 
They  spread  the  board,  and  they  rilled  the  bowl, 
And  the  phantoms  passed  from  his  troubled  soul. 


38    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREK. 

For  all  the  ailments  which  infest 
A  solitary  Briton's  breast, 
The  peccant  humors  which  defile 
The  thoughts  in  this  fog-haunted  isle, 
Whatever  name  or  style  they  bear — 
Reflection,  study,  nerves,  or  care, 
There's  naught  of  such  Lethean  power 
As  dinner  at  the  dinner-hour. 
Sefton  !  the  Premier,  o'er  thy  plate, 
Thinks  little  of  last  night's  debate  ; 
Cowan  !  the  merchant,  in  thy  hall, 
Grows  careless  what  may  rise  or  fall ; 
The  wit  who  feeds  can  puff  away 
His  unsold  tale,  his  unheard  play; 
And  Mr.  Wellesley  Pole  forgets, 
At  eight  o'clock,  his  duns  and  debts. 
The  Knight  approved  the  roasted  boar, 
And  mused  upon  his  dream  no  more  : 
The  Knight  enjoyed  the  bright  champagne, 
And  deemed  himself  himself  again. 

Sir  Isumbras  was  ever  found 

Where  blows  were  struck  for  glory  ; 
There  sate  not  at  the  Table  Round 

A  knight  more  famed  in  story: 
The  king  on  his  throne  would  turn  about 

To  see  his  courser  prancing ; 
And,  when  Sir  Launcelot  had  gout, 

The  queen  would  praise  his  dancing. 


THE  LEGEXD  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.    189 

He  quite  wore  out.  his  father's  spurs, 

Performing  valor's  duties — 
Destroying  mighty  sorcerers, 

Avenging  injured  beauties, 
And  crossing  many  a  trackless  sand, 

And  rescuing  people's  daughters 
From  dragons  that  infest  the  land, 

And  whales  that  walk  the  waters. 
He  throttled  lions  by  the  score, 

And  giants  by  the  dozen ; 
And,  for  his  skill  in  lettered  lore, 

They  called  him  "  Merlin's  Cousin." 
A  troop  of  steeds,  with  Lit  and  rein, 

Stood  ready  in  his  stable ; 
An  ox  was  every  morning  slain, 

And  roasted  for  his  table. 
And  he  had  friends,  all  brave  and  tall, 

And  crowned  with  praise  and  laurel, 
Who  kindly  feasted  in  his  hall, 

And  jousted  in  his  quarrel ; 
And  minstrels  came  and  sang  his  fame 

In  very  rugged  verses  ; 
And  they  were  paid  with  wine  and  game, 

And  rings,  and  cups,  and  purses. 

And  he  loved  a  Lady  of  high  degree, 

Faith's  fortress,  Beauty's  flower  ; 
A  countess  for  her  maid  had  she, 

And  a  kingdom  for  her  dower  ; 


190    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

And  a  brow  whose  frowns  were  vastly  grand. 

And  an  eye  of  sunlit  brightness, 
And  a  swan-like  neck,  and  an  arm  and  hand 

Of  most  bewitching  whiteness  ; 
And  a  voice  of  music,  whose  sweet  tones 

Could  most  divinely  prattle 
Of  battered  casques,  and  broken  bones, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  battle, 
He  wore  her  scarf  in  many  a  fray, 

lie  trained  her  hawks  and  ponies, 
And  filled  her  kitchen  every  day 

With  leverets  and  conies ; 
He  loved,  and  he  was  loved  again  : — 

I  won't  waste  time  in  proving, 
There  is  no  pleasure  like  the  pain 

Of  being  loved,  and  loving. 

Dame  Fortune  is  a  fickle  gipsy, 
And  always  blind,  and  often  tipsy  ; 
Sometimes,  for  years  and  years  together, 
She'll  bless  you  with  the  sunniest  weather, 
Bestowing  honor,  pudding,  pence, 
You  can't  imagine  why  or  whence; — 
Then  in  a  moment — Presto,  Pass  ! — 
Your  joys  are  withered  like  the  grass ; 
You  find  your  constitution  vanish, 
Almost  as  quickly  as  the  Spanish ; 
The  murrain  spoils  your  flocks  and  fleeces  •, 
The  dry-rot  pulls  your  house  to  pieces  ; 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.    191 

Your  garden  raises  only  weeds ; 
Your  agent  steals  your  title-deeds  ; 
Your  banker's  failure  stuns  the  city  ; 
Your  father's  will  makes  Sugden  witty  j 
Your  daughter,  in  her  beauty's  bloom, 
Goes  off  to  Gretna  with  the  groom  ; 
A.nd  you,  good  man,  are  left  alone, 
To  battle  with  the  gout  and  stone. 

Ere  long,  Sir  Isumbras  began 

To  be  a  sad  and  thoughtful  man : 

They  said  the  glance  of  an  evil  eye 

Had  been  on  the  knight's  prosperity  .- 

Less  swift  on  the  quarry  his  falcon  went, 

Less  true  was  his  hound  on  the  wild  deer's  scent, 

And  thrice  in  the  list  he  came  to  the  earth, 

By  the  luckless  chance  of  a  broken  girth. 

And  Poverty  soon  in  her  rags  was  seen 

At  the  board  where  Plenty  erst  had  been  ; 

And  the  guests  smiled  not  as  they  smiled  before, 

And  the  song  of  the  minstrel  was  heard  no  more  ; 

And  a  base  ingrate,  who  was  his  foe, 

Because,  a  little  month  ago, 

He  had  cut  him.  down,  with  friendly  ardor, 

From  a  rusty  hook  in  an  Ogre's  larder, 

Invented  an  atrocious  fable, 

And  ruined  him  quite  at  the  Royal  Table : 

And  she  at  last,  the  worshipped  one, 

For  whom  his  valorous  deeds  were  done, 

x^^^^i ' 

>*     G? 


192    THE  LEGEXD  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

The  star  of  all  his  soul's  reflections, 

The  rose  of  all  his  heart's  affections, 

Who  had  heard  his  vows  and  worn  his  jewels, 

And  made  him  light  so  many  duels — 

She,  too,  when  Fate's  relentless  wheel 

Deprived  him  of  the  Privy  Seal, 

Bestowed  her  smiles  upon  another, 

And  gave  his  letters  to  her  mother. 

'Tis  the  last  drop,  as  all  men  know, 
That  makes  the  bucket  overflow, 
And  the  last  parcel  of  the  pack 
That  bends  in  two  the  camel's  back. 
Fortune  and  Fame — he  had  seen  them  depart, 
With  a  silent  pride  of  a  valiant  heart : 
Traitorous  friends — he  had  passed  them, by, 
With  a  haughty  brow  and  a  stifled  sigh. 
Boundless  and  black  might  roll  the  sea, 
O'er  which  the  course  of  his  bark  must  be ; 
But  he  saw,  through  the  storms  that  frowned  above, 
One  guiding  light  and  the  light  was  Love. 
JSTow  all  was  dark;  the  doom  was  spoken! 
His  wealth  all  spent,  and  his  heart  half  broken ; 
Poor  youth  !  he  had  no  earthly  hope, 
Except  in  laudanum,  or  a  rope. 

If  e'er  you  happened,  by  a  twist 
Of  Destiny's  provoking  wrist, 
To  find  yourself  one  morning  hurled 
From  all  you  had  in  all  the  world, — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.    193 

Seeing  your  pretty  limes  and  beeches 
Supply  the  auction-mart  with  speeches. — 
By  base  ingratitude  disgusted 
In  him  you  most  esteemed  and  trusted, 
And  cut,  without  the  slightest  reason, 
By  her  who  was  so  kind  last  season, — 
You  know  how  often  meditation 
Assures  you,  for  your  consolation, 
That,  if  you  had  but  been  contented 
To  rent  the  house  your  father  rented, 
If,  in  Sir  Paul  you'd  been  inclined  to 
Suspect  what  no  one  else  was  blind  to, 
If,  for  that  false  girl,  you  had  chosen 
Either  her  sister  or  her  cousin, 
If  any  thing  you  had  been  doing 
But  just  the  very  thing  you're  rueing, 
You  might  have  lived  your  day  in  clover, 
Gay,  rich,  prized  friend,  and  favored  lover. 
Thus  was  it  with  my  Knight  of  knights ; 
While  vanished  all  his  vain  delights, 
The  thought  of  being  dupe  and  ass 
Most  galled  the  sick  Sir    Ismnbras. 

He  ordered  out  his  horse,  and  tried, 
As  the  Leech  advised,  a  gentle  ride. 

A  pleasant  path  he  took, 

Where  the  turf,  all  bright  with  the  April  showers, 
Was  spangled  with  a  thousand  flowers, 

Beside  a  murmuring  brook. 


194    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TR2E, 

Never  before  had  he  ridden,  that  wny  ; 
And  now,  on  a  sunny  first  of  May, 
He  chose  the  turning,  you  may  guess, 
Not  for  the  laughing  loveliness 
Of  turf,  or  flower,  or  stream;  but  only 
Because  it  looked  extremely  lonely. 

Yet  but  that  Megrim  hovering  here 
Had  dimmed  the  eye  and  dulled  the  ear, 
Jocund  and  joyous  all  around 
Were  every  sight  and  every  sound. 
The  ancient  forest,  whose  calm  rest 
No  axe  did  ever  yet  molest, 

Stretched  far  upon  the  right ; 
Here,  deepening  into  trackless  shades, 
There,  opening  long  and  verdant  glades, 

Unto  the  cheerful  light : 
Wide  on  the  left,  whene'er  the  screen 
Of  hedgerows  left  a  space  between 

To  stand  and  gaze  awhile, 
O'er  varied  scenes  the  eye  might  rove, 
Orchard  and  garden,  mead  and  grove, 

Spread  out  for  many  a  mile. 
Around,  in  all  the  joy  of  spring, 
The  sinless  birds  were  carolling; 

Low  hummed  the  studious  bees ; 
And  softly,  sadly,  rose  and  fell 
The  echo  of  the  ocean  swell, 

In  the  capricious  breeze. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.    195 

But  truly  Sir  Usumbras  cared  as  much 

For  all  that  a  happier  heart  might  touch, 

As  Cottenham  cares  for  a  Highland  reel, 

When  counsel  opens  a  Scotch  Appeal, 

Or  Hume  for  Pasta's  glorious  scenes, 

When  the  House  is  voting  the  Ways  and  Menus. 

He  had  wandered,  musing,  scarce  a  mile, 

In  his  melancholy  mood, 
When,  peeping  o'er  a  rustic  stiJe, 
He  saw  a  little  village  smile, 

Embowered  in  thick  wood. 
There  were  small  cottages,  arrayed 
in  the  delicate  jasmine's  fragrant  shade  ; 
And  gardens,  whence  the  rose's  bloom 
Loaded  the  gale  with  rich  perfume  ; 
And  there  were  happy  hearts  ;  for  al] 
In  that  bright  nook  kept  festival, 
And  welcomed  in  the  merry  May, 
With  banquet  and  with  roundelay. 

Sir  Isumbras  sate  gazing  there, 
With  folded  arms,  and  mournful  air , 
He  fancied — 'twas  an  idle  whim— - 
That  the  village  looked  like  a  home  to  him. 

And  now  a  gentle  maiden  came, 
Leaving  her  sisters  and  their  game, 

And  wandered  up  the  vale ; 
Beauty  so  bright  he  had  never  seen 
Saving  her  Majesty  the  Queen  ; — 


196   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TRSE. 

But  out  on  ugly  doubts  and  fears ! 
Her  eyes  were  very  full  of  tears, 

Her  cheeks  were  very  pale. 
None  courted  her  stay  of  the  joyous  throng, 

As  she  passed  from  the  group  alone ; 
And  he  listened,  which  was  vastly  wrong, 
And  heard  her  singing  a  lively  song, 

In  a  very  dismal  tone  : 

"  Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 

When  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  goes,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight, 
Tc  shiver  a  lance  for  his  Lady-love  !" 

That  thrilling  tone,  so  soft  and  clear — 

Was  it  familiar  to  his  ear  ? 

And  those  delicious  drooping  eyes, 

As  blue  and  as  pure  as  the  summer  skies — 

Had  he,  indeed,  in  other  days, 

Been  blessed  in  the  light  of  their  holy  rays'? 

He  knew  not ;  but  his  knee  he  bent 

Before  her  in  most  knightly  fashion, 
And  grew  superbly  eloquent 

About  her  beauty,  and  his  passion. 
He  said  that  she  was  very  fair, 

And  that  she  warbled  like  a  linnet ; 
And  that  he  loved  her,  though  he  ne'er 

Had  looked  upon  her  till  that  minute. 
He  said,  that  all  the  Court  possessed 

Of  gay  or  grave,  of  fat  or  slender, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.   197 

Poor  things  !  were  only  fit,  at  best, 

To  hold  a  candle  to  her  splendor : 
He  vowed  that  when  she  once  should  take 

A  little  proper  state  upon  her, 
All  lutes  for  her  delight  would  wake, 

All  lances  shiver  in  her  honor  : 
He  grieved  to  mention  that  a  Jew 

Had  seized  for  debt  his  grand  pavilion ; 
And  he  had  little  now,  'twas  true, 

To  offer,  but  a  heart  and  pillion : 
But  what  of  that  ?     In  many  ,1  fight — 

Though  he,  who  shouldn't  say  it,  said  it — 
He  still  had  borne  him  like  a  knight, 

And  had  his  share  of  blows  and  credit : 
And  if  she  would  but  condescend 

To  meet  him  at  the  Priest's  to-morrow, 
And  be  henceforth  his  guide,  his  friend, 

In  every  toil,  in  every  sorrow, 
They'd  sail  instanter  from  the  Downs ; 

His  hands  just  now  were  quite  at  leisure  ; 
And,  if  she  fancied  foreign  crowns, 

He'd  win  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"  A  year  is  gone  " — the  damsel  sighed, 

But  blushed  not,  as  she  so  replied — - 
*'  Since  one  I  loved — alas  !  how  well 

He  knew  not,  knows  not — left  cur  dell. 

Time  brings  to  his  deserted  cot 

No  tidings  of  his  after  lot ; 


198          LEGEND     OF     THE      HAUNTED     TREE. 

But  his  weal  or  wo  is  still  the  theme 

Of  my  daily  thought  and  rny  nightly  dream. 

Poor  Alice  is  not  proud  or  coy ; 

But  her  heart  is  with  her  minstrel  boy." 

Away  from  his  arms  the  damsel  bounded, 

And  left  him  more  and  more  confounded. 

He  mused  of  the  present,  he  mused  of  the  past, 

And  he  felt  that  a  spell  was  o'er  him  cast ; 

He  shed  hot  tears,  he  knew  not  why, 

And  talked  to  himself  and  made  reply, 

Till  a  calm  o'er  his  troubled  senses  crept. 

And,  as  the  daylight  waned,  he  slept. 

Poor  gentleman  ! — I  need  nor,  say, 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay. 

"  He  is  welcome," — o'er  his  bed. 
Thus  the  bounteous  Fairy  said  : 

"  He  has  conned  the  lesson  now, 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain . 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow, 
I  must  make  it  smooth  again. 

"  Lo,  I  knock  the  spurs  away  ; 

Lo,  I  loosen  belt  and  brand  ; 
Hark  !  I  hear  the  courser  neigh 
For  his  stall  in  Fairy-land. 

"  Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest, 

Buckle  on  his  sandal  shoon ; 

Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 

In  the  treasury  of  the  Moon. 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE.  199 

"  I  have  taught  him  to  be  wise, 

For  a  little  maiden's  sake; — 
Lo  !  he  opens  his  glad  eyes, 
Softly,  slowly  : — minstrel,  wake  !" 

The  sun  has  risen,  and  Wilfrid  is  come 

To  his  early  friends  and  his  cottage  home. 

His  hazel  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold 

Are  just  as  they  were  in  the  time  of  old  : 

But  a  blessing  has  been  on  the  soul  within. 

For  that  is  won  from  its  secret  sin  ; 

More  loving  now,  and  worthier  love 

Of  men  below  and  of  saints  above. 

He  reins  a  steed  with  a  lordly  air, 

Which  makes  his  country  cousins  stare  : 

And  he  speaks  in  a  strange  and  courtly  phrase, 

Though  his  voice  is  the  voice  of  other  days  .• 

But  where  he  has  learned  to  talk  and  ride, 

He  will  tell  to  none  but  .bis  bonny  bride. 

(Written  in  1830 ;  but  revised  by  the  author  and  largely  added 
to  in  1 837.) 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

"  DEATH  be  her  doom  !  we  must  not  spare, 
Though  the  voice  be  sweet,  though  the  face  be  fair, 
When  the  looks  deride  and  the  lips  blaspheme 
The  Serpent-God  of  our  hallowed  stream. 

"Death  be  her  doom!  that  the  fearful  King 
May  joy  in  the  gift  his  votaries  bring ; 
And  smile  on  the  valley,  and  smile  on  the  rock, 
To  freshen  the  vine,  and  to  fatten  the  flock. 

"Death be  her  doom !  ere  the  pitiless  One 
Leap  from  his  rest  at  set  of  sun ; 
Seek  from  his  crag  his  wonted  prey, 
And  punish  in  wrath  our  long  delay !" 

It  was  a  gray-haired  Chief  that  said 

The  words  of  fate,  the  words  of  fear ; 
A  battered  casque  was  on  his  head, 

And  in  his  grasp  a  broken  spear : 
It  was  a  captive  maid  that  met, 

Sedate,  serene,  the  stern  command ; 
Around  her  neck  her  beads  were  set, 

An  ivory  cross  was  in  her  hand. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.    201 

"  Lead  me  away  !  I  am  weak  and  young, 
Captive  the  fierce  and  the  proud  among ; 
But  I  will  pray  a  humble  prayer, 
That  the  feeble  to  strike  may  be  firm  to  bear. 

"  Lead  me  away !  the  voice  may  fail, 

And  the  lips  grow  white,  and  the  cheeks  turn 

pale ; 

Yet  will  ye  know  that  nought  but  sin 
Chafes  or  changes  the  soul  within. 

"  Lead  me  away !  oh,  dear  to  mine  eyes 
Are  the  flowery  fields,  and  the  sunny  skies ; 
But  I  cannot  turn  from  the  Cross  divine 
To  bend  my  knee  at  an  idol's  shrine." 

They  clothe  her  in  such  rich  array 
As  a  bride  prepares  for  her  bridal  day; 
Around  her  forehead,  that  shines  so  bright, 
They  wreathe  a  wreath  of  roses  white, 
And  set  on  her  neck  a  golden  chain — 
Spoil  of  her  sire  in  combat  slain. 

Over  her  head  her  doom  is  said ; 

And  with  folded  arms,  and  measured  tread, 

In  long  procession,  dark  and  slow, 

Up  the  terrible  hill  they  go, 

Hymning  their  hymn,  and  crying  their  cry 

To  him,  their  Demon  Deity. — 

Mary,  Mother !  sain  and  save ! 

The  maiden  kneels  at  the  Dragon's  cave ! 


202   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRAG  HENF  ELS. 

Alas  !  'tis  frightful  to  behold 
That  thing  of  Nature's  softest  mould, 
In  whose  slight  shape  and  delicate  hue 
Life's  lovliness  beams  fresh  and  new, 
Bound  on  the  bleak  hill's  topmost  height, 
To  die,  and  by  such  death,  to-night ! 
But  yester-eve,  when  the  red  sun 
His  race  of  grateful  toil  had  run, 
And  over  earth  the  moon's  soft  rays 
Lit  up  the  hour  of  prayer  and  praise, 
She  bowed  within  the  pleasant  shade 
By  her  own  fragrant  jasmine  made ; 
And  while  her  clear  and  thrilling  tone 
Asked  blessing  from  her  Maker's  throne, 
Heard  the  notes  echoed  to  her  ear 
From  lips  that  were  to  her  most  dear. 
Her  sire,  her  kindred,  round  her  knelt ; 
And  the  young  Priestess  knew  and  felt 
That  deeper  love  than  that  of  men 
Was  in  their  natural  temple  then. 
That  love — is  now  its  radiance  chill  ? 
Fear  not ;  it  guides,  it  guards  her  still ! 

The  temper  of  our  stoutest  mail 
In  battle's  fiery  shock  may  fail ; 
The  trustiest  anchor  may  betray 
Our  vessel  in  the  treacherous  spray ; 
The  dearest  friend  we  ever  knew 
In  our  worst  need  may  prove  untrue : 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.    203 

But  come  what  may  of  doubt  or  dread 
About  our  lonely  path  or  bed, 
On  tented  field,  or  stormy  wave, 
In  dungeon  cell,  or  mountain  cave, 
In  want,  in  pain,  in  death, — where'er 
One  meek  heart  prays,  God's  love  is  there ! 

The  crowd  departed:  her  wandering  eye 
Followed  their  steps,  as  they  left  her  to  die. 
Down  the  steep  and  stern  descent, 
Strangely  mingled,  the  Heathen  went, — 
Palsied  dotard,  and  beardless  boy, 
Sharers  to-night  in  their  savage  joy, — 
Hoary  priest,  and  warrior  grim, 
Shaking  the  lance,  and  chanting  the  hymn; 
And  ever  and  anxiously  looking  back, 
To  watch  if  yet,  on  his  slimy  track 
He  rolled  him  forth,  that  ghastly  guest, 
To  taste  of  the  banquet  he  loved  the  best. 

The  crowd  departed;  and  alone 
She  kneeled  upon  the  rugged  stone. 
Alas !  it  was  a  dismal  pause, 
When  the  wild  rabble's  fierce  applause 

Died  slowly  on  the  answering  air; 
And,  in  the  still  and  mute  profound, 
She  started  even  at  the  sound 

Of  the  half-thought,  half-spoken  prayer 
Her  heart  and  lip  had  scarcely  power 
To  feel  or  frame  in  that  dark  hour. 


204         THE    LEGEND    OF    THE    DRACHENFiiLW. 

Fearful,  yet  blameless  ! — for  her  birth, 
Had  been  of  Nature's  common  earth, 
And  she  was  nursed,  in  happier  hours, 
By  Nature's  common  suns  arid  showers: 
And  when  one  moment  whirls  away 
Whatever  we  know  or  trust  to-day, 
And  opens  that  eternal  book 
On  which  we  long,  and  dread  to  look, 
In  that  quick  change  of  sphere  and  scope, - 

That  rushing  of  the  spirit's  wings, 
From  all  we  have  to  all  we  hope, 

From  mortal  to  immortal  things, — 
Though  madly  on  the  giddy  brink 

Despair  may  jest,  and  Guilt  dissemble,- 
White  Innocence  awhile  will  shrink, 

And  Piety  be  proud  to  tremble ! 

But  quickly  from  her  brow  and  cheek 

The  flush  of  human  terror  faded  ; 
And  she  aroused,  the  maiden  meek, 

Her  fainting  spirit,  self-upbraided ; 
And  felt  her  secret  soul  renewed 
In  that  her  solemn  solitude. 
Unwonted  strength  to  her  was  given 

To  bear  the  rod,  and  drink  the  cup ; 
Her  pulse  beat  calmer  ;  and  to  heaven 

Her  voice  in  firmer  tone    went  up. 
And  as  upon  her  gentle  heart 

The  dew  of  holy  peace  descended, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.   205 

She  saw  her  last  sunlight  depart, 

With  awe  and  hope  so  sweetly  blended 
Into  a  deep  and  tranquil  sense 
Of  uiipresuming  confidence, 
That  if  the  blinded  tribes,  whose  breath 
Had  doomed  her  to  such  dole  and  death, 
Could  but  have  caught  one  bright,  brief  glance 
Of  that  ungrieving  countenance, 
And  marked  the  light  of  glory  shed 
Already  o'er  her  sinless  head, 

The  tears,  with  which  her  eyes  were  full, 
Tears  not  of  anguish, — and  the  smile 
Of  new-born  rapture,  which  the  while, 
As  with  a  lustrous  veil,  arrayed 
Her  brow,  her  cheek,  her  lip,  and  made 

Her  beauty  more  than  beautiful, — 
Oh,  would  they  not  have  longed  to  share 
Her  torture, — yea,  her  transport,  there? 

"  Father,  my  sins  are  very  great ; 

Thou  readest  them,  whate'er  they  be : 
But  penitence  is  all  too  late ; 

And  unprepared  I  come  to  thee, — 

Uncleansed,  unblest,  unshriven  ! 

"  Yet  thou,  in  whose  all-searching  sight 

No  human  thing  is  undefiled, — 
Thou,  who  art  merciful  in  might, 

Father,  thou  wilt  forgive  thy  child, — 
Father,  thou  hast  forgiven  ! 


206   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

"  Thy  will,  not  hers,  be  done  to-day  ! — 
If  in  this  hour,  and  on  this  spot, 

Her  soul  indeed  must  pass  away, 

Among  fierce  men  who  know  thce  not, — 
Thine  is  the  breath  thou  gavest ! 

"  Or  if  thou  wilt  put  forth  thy  hand 
And  shield  her  from  the  jaws  of  flame, 

That  she  may  live  to  teach  the  land 

Whose  people  hath  not  heard  thy  name, — 
Thine  be  the  life  thou  savest !" 

So  spoke  the  blessed  maid  ;  and  now 

Crossing  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
With  quiet  eye,  and  placid  brow, 

Awaited  the  destroying  pest ; 
Not  like  a  thing  of  sense  and  life 
Soul-harrassed  in  such  bitter  strife, 
But  tranquil,  as  a  shape  of  stone, 
Upraised  in  ages  long  bygone, 
To  mark  where,  closed  her  toilsome  race, 
Some  sainted  sister  sleeps  in  grace. 

Such  might  she  seem  :  about  her  grew 
Sweet  wild-flowers,  sweet  of  scent  and  hue ; 
And  she  had  placed,  with  pious  care, 
Her  Crucifix  before  her  there, 
That  her  last  look  and  thought  might  be 
Of  Christ,  and  of  the  Holy  Tree. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.    207 

And  now,  methinks,  at  what  my  lay 
Of  this  poor  maid  hath  yet  to  say, 
Will  Wit  assume  a  scornful  look, 
And  Wisdom  con  a  grave  rebuke. 
I  heed  them  not ;  full  oft  their  lies 
In  such  time-honored  histories, 
Hived  through  long  ages  in  the  store 
Of  the  rude  peasant's  nursery  lore, 
A  pathos  of  a  deeper  ruth, 
A  moral  of  a  purer  truth, 
Than  aught  we  study  in  the  page 
Of  lofty  bard  or  learned  sage  ; 
Therefore,  my  gentle  Muse,  prolong 
In  faith  thy  legendary  song. 

The  day  was  gone,  but  it  was  not  night : — 
Whither  so  suddenly  fled  the  light  ? 
Nature  seemed  sick  with  a  sore  disease ; 
Over  her  hills  and  streams  and  trees 

Unnatural  darkness  fell ; 

The  earth  and  the  heaven,  the  river  and  shore, 
In  the  lurid  mist  were  seen  no  more ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  mountain  monster  rose 
As  he  lifted  him  up  from  his  noon-tide  repose, 
First  in  a  hiss,  and  then  in  a  cry, 
And  then  in  a  yell  that  shook  the  sky ; — 
The  eagle  from  high  fell  down  to  die 

At  the  sound  of  that  mighty  yell : — 
From  his  wide  jaws  broke,  as  in  wrath  he  woke, 
Scalding  torrents  of  sulphurous  smoke 


208    THE   LEGEND   OF  THE  D R ACHE N FELS  . 

And  crackling  coals,  in  mad  ascent, 
As  from  a  red  volcano  went, 

And  flames,  like  the  flames  of  hell. 
But  his  scream  of  fury  waxed  more  shrill, 
When,  on  the  peak  of  the  blasted  Hill, 

He  saw  his  victim  bound. 
Forth  the  Devourer,  scale  by  scale, 
Unveiled  the  folds  of  his  steel-proof  mail, 
Stretching  his  throat,  and  stretching  his  tail,  = 
And  hither  and  thither  rollinc:  him  o'er, 

O 

Till  he  covered  four-score  feet  and  four 

Of  the  wearied  and  wailing  ground. 
And  at  last  he  raised  from  his  stony  bed 
The  horrors  of  his  speckled  head; 
Up,  like  a  comet,  the  meteor  went, 
And  seemed  to  shake  the  firmament, 

And  batter  heaven's  own  walls ! 
For  many  a  long  mile,  well  I  ween, 
The  fires  that  shot  from  those  eyes  were  seen ; 
The  Burschen  of  Bonn,  if  Bonn  had  been, 

Would  have  shuddered  in  their  halls. 
Woe  for  the  Virgin  ! — bootless  here 
Were  gleaming  shield,  and  whistling  spear, 

Such  battle  to  abide  ; 
The  mightiest  engines  that  ever  the  trade 
Of  human  homicide  hath  made, 
Warwolf,  balist,  and  catapult, 
Would  like  a  stripling's  wand  insult 

That  adamantine  hide. 
Woe  for  the  Virgin  ! — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.    209 

Lo  !   what  spell 
Hath  scattered  the  darkness,  and  silenced  the 

yen, 

And  quenched  those  fiery  showers  ? — • 
Why  turns  the  Serpent  from  his  prey  ? 
The  Cross  hath  barred  his  terrible  way, 

The  Cross,  among  the  flowers. 
As  an  eagle  pierced  on  his  cloudy  throne, 
As  a  column  sent  from  its  base  of  stone, 
Backward  the  stricken  Monster  dropped ; 
Never  he  stayed  and  never  he  stopped, 
Till  deep  in  the  gushing  tide  he  sank, 

And  buried  lay  beneath  the  stream, 

Passing  away  like  a  loathsome  dream. 
Well  may  you  guess  how  either  bank 

As  with  an  earth  quake  shook  ; 
The  mountains  rocked  from  brow  to  base  ; 

The  river  boiled  with  a  hideous  din 

As  the  burning  mass  fell  heavily  in  ; 
And  the  wide,  wide  Rhine,  for  a  moment's 
space, 

Was  scorched  into  a  brook. 
Night  passed,  ere  the  multitude  dared  to  creep, 
Huddled  together,  up  the  steep ; 
They  came  to  the  stone — in  speechless  awe 
They  fell  on  their  face  at  the  sight  they  saw : 
The  maiden  was  free  from  hurt  or  harin,- 
But  the  iron  had  passed  from  her  neck  and  arm, 
And  the  glittering  links  of  the  broken    chain 
Lay  scattered  about  like  drops  of  rain  ! 


210    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

And  deem  ye  that  the  rescued  child 

To  her  father-land  would  come, — 
That  the  remnant  of  her  kindred  smiled 

Around  her,  in  her  home, 
And  that  she  lived  in  love  of  earth, 

Among  earth's  hopes  and  fears, 
And  gave  God  thanks  for  the  daily  birth 

Of  blessings  in  after  years  ? — 
Holy  and  happy,  she  turned  not  away 
From  the  task  her  Saviour  set  that  day ; — 
What  was  her  kindred,  her  home,  to  her  ?- 
She  had  been  heaven's  own  messenger ! 

Short  time  went  by  from  that  dread  hour 
Of  manifested  wrath  and  power, 
Ere  from  the  cliff  a  rising  shrine 
Looked  down  upon  the  rolling  Rhine. 
Duly  the  virgin  Priestess  there 
Led  day  by  day  the  hymn  and  prayer, 
And  the  dark  Heathen  round  her  pressed 
To  know  their  Maker,  and  be  blessed  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS.    211 


L'ENYOI. 

TO  THE  COUXTESS  VOX  C 


I. 

This  is  the  Legend  of  the  Drachenfels,  — 

Sweet  theme,  most  feebly  sung  :  —  and  yet  to  me 

My  feeble  song  is  grateful  ;  for  it  tells 

Of  far-off'  smiles  and  voices.     Though  it  be 

Unmeet,  fair  Lady,  for  thy  breast  or  bower, 

Yet  thou  wilt  wear,  for  thou  didst  plant,  the  flower, 

ii. 

It  had  been  worthier  of  such  birth  and  death, 
If  it  had  bloomed  where  thou  hadst  watched  its 

rise, 
Fanned  by  the  zephyr  of  thy  fragrant  breath, 

Warmed  by  the  sunshine  of  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 
And  cherished  by  the  love  in  whose  pure  shade 
No  evil  thing  can  live,  no  good  thing  fade. 

in. 
It  will  be  long  ere  thou  wilt  shed  again 

Thy  praise  or  censure  on  my  childish  lays,  — 


212    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

Thy  praise,  which  makes  me  happy  more  than  vain ; 

Thy  censure,  kinder  than  another's  praise. 
Huge  mountains  frown  between  us  ;  and  the  swell 
Of  the  hoarse  sea  is  mocking  my  farewell. 

IY. 

Yet  not  the  less,  dear  Friend,  thy  guiding  light 
Shines  through  the  secret  chambers  of  my  thought; 

Or  when  I  waken,  with  revived  delight, 

The  lute  young  Fancy  to  my  cradle  brought, 

Or  when  I  visit,  with  a  studious  brow, 

The  less-loved  task,  to  which  I  turn  me  now. 

(Written  in  1829;  but  revised  by  the  author  and  largely  added 
to  in  1837.) 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  BELMONT. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    RHINE. 

WHERE  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  ruin  wan  and  gray 
O'erlooks  the  coin-field  and  the  vine, 

Majestic  in  its  dark  decay. 
Among  their  dim  clouds,  long  ago, 
They  mocked  the  battles  that  raged  below, 
And  greeted  the  guests  in  arms  that  came, 
With  hissing  arrow,  and  scalding  flame  : 
But  there  is  not  one  of  the  homes  of  pride 
That  frown  on  the  breast  of  the  peaceful  tide, 
Whose  leafy  walls  more  proudly  tower 
Than  these,  the  walls  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  fierce  and  fiery  lord 
Did  carve  the  meat,  and  pour  the  wine, 

For  all  that  revelled  at  his  board. 
Father  and  son,  they  were  all  alike, 
Firm  to  endure,  and  fast  to  strike; 


214  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BEL  MONT. 

Little  they  loved  but  a  Frau  or  a  feast, 

Nothing  they  feared  but  a  prayer  or  a  priest ; 

But  there  was  not  one  in  all  the  land 

More  trusty  of  heart,  more  stout  of  hand, 

More  valiant  in  field,  or  more  courteous  in  bower, 

Than  Otto,  the  Lord  of  Belmont  Tower. 

His  eyes  were  bright,  his  eyes  were  blue, 

As  summer's  sun,  as  summer's  heaven  ; 
His  age  was  barely  twenty-two; 

His  height  was  just  five  feet  eleven : 
His  hounds  were  of  the  purest  strain, 

His  hawks  the  best  from  every  nation ; 
His  courser's  tail,  his  courser's  mane, 

Was  all  the  country's  admiration  : 
His  frowns  were  lightnings  charged  writh  fate; 

His  smiles  were  shafts  from  Cupid's  quiver ; 
He  had  a  very  old  estate, 

And  the  best  vineyards  on  the  river. 
So  ancient  dames,  you  need  not  doubt, 

Would  wink  and  nod  their  pride  and  pleasure, 
Whene'er  the  youthful  Count  led  out 

Their  eldest  or  their  youngest  treasure, 
Take  notes  of  what  his  Lordship  said 

On  shapes  and  colors,  songs  and  dances, 
And  make  their  maidens  white  or  red, 

According  to  their  Lordship's  fancies, 
They  whispered,  too,  from  time  to  time, 

What  might  escape  the  Count's  inspection  ; 
That  Linda's  soul  was  all  sublime  ; 

That  Gertude's  taste  was  quite  perfection  ; 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BEL  MO  NT.  215 

Or  blamed  some  people's  forward  tricks, 

And  very  charitably  hinted, 
Their  neighbor's  neice  was  twenty-six, 

Their  cousin's  clever  daughter  squinted. 

Are  you  rich,  single,  and  "  your  Grace  ?" 
I  pity  your  unhappy  case ; 
Before  you  launch  your  first  new  carriage, 
The  women  have  arranged  your  marriage  ; 
Where'er  your  weary  wit  may  lead  you, 
They  pet  you,  praise  you,  fret  you,  feed  you ; 
Consult  your  taste  in  wreaths  and  laces, 
And  make  you  make  their  books  at  Races ; 
Your  little  pony,  Tarn  O'Shanter, 
Is  found  to  have  the  sweetest  canter ; 
Your  curricle  is  quite  reviving, 
And  Jane's  so  bold  when  you  are  driving ! 
One  recollects  your  father's  habits, 
And  knows  the  warren,  and  the  rabbits ! 
The  place  is  really  princely — only 
They're  sure  you'll  find  it  vastly  lonely. 
Another,  in  more  tender  phrases, 
Records  your  sainted  mother's  praises ; 
Pronounces  her  the  best  of  creatures, 
And  finds  in  you  her  tones  and  features. 

You  go  to  Cheltenham,  for  the  waters, 
And  meet  the  Countess  and  her  daughters ; 
You  take  a  cottage  at  Geneva — 
Lo !  Lady  Anne  and  Lady  Eva. 


216  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BEL  MO  NT. 

After  a  struggle  of  a  session, 
You  just  surrender  at  discretion, 
And  live  to  curse  the  frauds  of  mothers, 
And  envy  all  your  younger  brothers. 

Count  Otto  bowed,  Count  Otto  smiled, 
When  My  Lady  praised  her  darling  child  ; 
Count  Otto  smiled,  Count  Otto  bowed, 
When  the  child  those  praises  disavowed ; 
But  out  on  the  cold  one !    he  cared  not  a  rush 
For  the  motherly  pride,  or  the  maidenly  blush. 
As  a  knight  should  gaze  Count  Otto  gazed, 
Where  Bertha  in  all  her  beauty  blazed ; 
As  a  knight  should  hear  Count  Otto  heard, 
When  Liba  sang  like  a  forest  bird  ; 
But  he  thought,  I  trow,  about  as  long 
Of  Bertha's  beauty  and  Liba's  song, 
As  the  sun  may  think  of  the  clouds  that  play 
O'er  his  radiant  path  on  a  summer  day. 

Many  a  maid  had  dreams  of  state, 
As  the  Count  rode  up  to  her  father's  gate ; 
Many  a  maid  shed  tears  of  pain, 
As  the  Count  rode  back  to  his  Tower  again ; 
But  little  he  cared,  as  it  should  seem, 
For  the  sad,  sad  tear,  or  the  fond,  fond  dream- 
Alone  he  lived — alone,  and  free 
As  the  owl  that  dwells  in  the  hollow  tree ; 
And  belles  and  barons  said  and  swore, 
There  never  was  knight  so  shy  before ! 


THE      BRIDAL     OF     UELMONT. 

It  was  almost  the  first  of  May  • 
The  sun  all  smiles  had  passed  away , 

The  moon  was  beautifully  bright ; 
Earth,  heaven,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
Looked  up  and  down  with  happy  faces ; 

In  short,  it  was  a  charming  night. 
And  all  alone,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
The  young  Count  clambered  down  the  rock. 
Unfurled  the  sail,  unchained  the  oar, 
And  pushed  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 
The  holiness  that  sweet  time  flings 
Upon  all  human  thoughts  and  things, 
When  Sorrow  checks  her  idle  sighs, 
And  care  shuts  fast  her  wearied  eyes ; 
The  splendor  of  the  hues  that  played 
Fantastical  o'er  hill  and  glade, 
As  verdant  slope  and  barren  cliff 
Seemed  darting  by  the  tiny  skiff; 
The  flowers,  whose  faint  tips,  here  and  there, 
Breathed  out  such  fragrance,  you  might  swear 
That  every  soundless  gale  that  fanned 
The  tide  came  fresh  from  fairy  land ; 
The  music  of  the  mountain  rill, 
Leaping  in  glee  from  hill  to  hill, 
To  which  some  wild  bird,  now  and  then, 
Made  answer  from  her  darksome  glen — 
All  this  to  him  had  rarer  pleasure 
Than  jester's  wit  or  minstrel's  measure  ; 
And,  if  you  ever  loved  romancing, 
Or  felt  extremely  tired  of  dancing. 
10 


218  THE     BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT. 

You'll  hardly  wonder  that  Count  Otto 
Left,  for  the  scene  my  muse  is  painting, 

The  Lady  Hildebrand's  rid  otto, 

Where  all  the  Rhenish  world  was  fainting. 

What  melody  glides  o'er  the  star-lit  stream  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley  !" 
Angels  of  grace !  does  the  young  Count  dream  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
Or  is  the  scene  indeed  so  fair 
That  a  nymph  of  the  sea  or  a  nymph  of  the  air 
Has  left  the  home  of  her  own  delight, 
To  sing  to  our  roses  and  rocks  to-night "? 

"Lurley!   Lurley!" 

Words  there  are  none ;  but  the  waves  prolong 
The  notes  of  that  mysterious  song : 
He  listens,    he  listens,  and  all  around 
Bipple  the  echoes  of  that  sweet  sound — 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
No  form  appears  on  the  river  side  ; 
No  boat  is  borne  on  the  wandering  tide  ; 
And  the  tones  ring  on,  with  naught  to  show 
Or  whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go — 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
As  fades  one  murmur  on  the  ear, 
There  comes  another,  just  as  clear  ; 
And  the  present  is  like  to  the  parted  strain 
As  link  to  link  of  a  golden  chain  : 

Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 


THE     BRIDAL      OF     BELMOXT.  219 

Whether  the  voice  be  sad  or  gay, 
'T  were  very  hard  for  the  Count  to  say  ; 
But  pale  are  his  cheeks  and  pained  his  brow, 
And  the  boat  drifts  on  he  recks  not  how  ; 
His  pulse  is  quick  and  his  heart  is  wild, 
And  he  weeps,  he  weeps,  like  a  little  child. 

O  mighty  music !  they  who  know 

The  witchery  of  thy  wondrous  bow, 

Forget,  when  thy  strange  spells  have  bound  them, 

The  visible  world  that  lies  around  them. 

When  Lady  Mary  sings  Rosini, 

Or  stares  at  spectral  Paganini, 

To  Lady  Mary  does  it  matter 

Who  laugh,  who  love,  who  frown,  who  flatter  ? 

Oh  no  ;  she  cannot  heed  or  hear 

Reason  or  rhyme  from  prince  or  peer : 

In  vain  for  her  Sir  Charles  denounces 

The  horror  of  the  last  new  flounces ; 

In  vain  her  friend  the  Member  raves 

Of  ballot,  bullion,  sugars,  slaves  ; 

Predicts  the  nation's  future  glories, 

And  chants  the  requiem  of  the  Tories ; 

And  if  some  fond  and  foolish  lisper 

Recites,  in  passion's  softest  whisper, 

The  raptures  which  young  love  imparts 

To  mutual  minds  and  kindred  hearts, — 

Poor  boy, — she  minds  him  just  as  much 

As  if  'twere  logic,  or  High  Dutch. 


220  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

As  little  did  the  young  Knight  care, — 

While  still  he  listened  to  the  air 

Breathed  by  some  melodist  unseen, 

Much  wondering  what  it  all  might  mean, — 

For  those  odd  changes  of  the  sky, 

To  dark  from  bright,  to  moist  from  dry, 

Which  furnish  to  the  British  nation 

Three  quarters  of  its  conversation. 

Meantime  a  gust,  a  drop,  a  flash 

Had  warned,  perhaps,  a  youth  less  rash, 

To  shun  a  storm  of  fiercer  fury, 

Than  ever  stunned  the  gods  of  Drury. 

Hid  was  the  bright  heaven's  loveliness 

Beneath  a  sudden  cloud, 
As  a  bride  might  doff  her  bridal  dress 

To  don  her  funeral  shroud  ; 
And  over  flood,  and  over  fell, 

With  a  wild  and  wicked  shout, 
From  the  secret  cell,  where  in  chains  they  dwell, 

The  joyous  winds  rushed  out ; 
And  the  tall  hills  through,  the  thunder  flew, 

And  down  the  fierce  hail  came  ; 
And  from  peak  to  peak  the  lightning  threw 

Its  shafts  of  liquid  flame. 
The  boat  went  down  ;  without  delay, 
The  luckless  boatman  swooned  away ; 
And  when,  as  a  clear  Spring  morning  rose 
He  woke  in  wonder  from  repose, 


THE     BRIDAL     OF      BEL  MONT.  221 

The  river  was  calm  as  the  river  could  be, 
And  the  thrush  was  awake  on  the  gladsome  tree, 
And  there  he  lay,  in  a  sunny  cave, 
On  the  margin  of  the  tranquil  wave, 
Half  deaf  with  that  infernal  din, 
And  wet,  poor  fellow,  to  the  skin. 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right- 
Why  hastened  he  not,  the  noble  knight, 
To  dry  his  aged  nurse's  tears, 
To  calm  the  hoary  butler's  fears. 
To  listen  to  the  prudent  speeches 
Of  half  a  dozen  loquacious  leeches — 
To  swallow  cordials  circumspectly, 
And  change  his  dripping  cloak  directly  ? 
With  foot  outstretched,  with  hand  upraised, 
In  vast  surprise  he  gazed,  and  gazed  : 
Within  a  deep  and  damp  recess 
A  maiden  lay  in  her  loveliness ! 
Lived  she  ? — in  sooth  't  were  hard  to  tell, 
Sleep  counterfeited  Death  so  well. 
A  shelf  of  the  rock  was  all  her  bed ; 
A  ceiling  of  crystal  was  o'er  her  head  : 
Silken  veil  nor  satin  vest, 
Shrouded  her  form  in  its  silent  rest ; 
Only  her  long,  long  golden  hair 
About  her  lay  like  a  thin  robe  there  ; 
Up  to  her  couch  the  young  knight  crept : 
How  very  sound  the  maiden  slept ! 
Fearful  and  faint  the  young  knight  sighed  : 
The  echoes  of  the  cave  replied. 


222        THE   BRIDAL   OF  BELMONT. 

He  leaned  to  look  upon  her  face  ; 

He  clasped  her  hand  in  a  wild  embrace  ; 

Never  was  form  of  such  fine  mould — 

But  the  hands  and  the  face  were  as  white  and  cold    • 

As  they  of  the  Parian  stone  were  made, 

To  which,  in  great  Minerva's  shade, 

The  Athenian  sculptor's  toilsome  knife 

Gave  all  of  loveliness  but  life. 

On  her  fair  neck  there  seemed  no  stain, 

Where  the  pure  blood  coursed  thro'  the  delicate  vein  , 

And  her  breath,  if  breath  indeed  it  were, 

Flowed  in  a  current  so  soft  and  rare, 

It  would  scarcely  have  stirred  the  young  moth's  wing 

On  the  path  of  his  noonday  wandering ; 

Never  on  earth  a  creature  trod, 

Half  so  lovely,  or  half  so  odd. 

Count  Otto  stares  till  his  eyelids  ache, 

And  wonders  when  she  '11  please  to  wake  ; 

While  Fancy  whispers  strange  suggestions, 

And  Wonder  prompts  a  score  of  questions. 

Is  she  a  nymph  of  another  sphere  ? 

How  came  she  hither  ? — what  does  she  here  ? 

Or  if  the  morning  of  her  birth 

Be  registered  on  this  our  earth, 

W^hy  hath  she  fled  from  her  father's  halls  1 

And  where  hath  she  left  her  cloaks  and  shawls? 

There  was  no  time  for  Reason's  lectures, 

There  was  no  time  for  Wit's  conjectures  ; 

He  threw  his  arm,  with  timid  haste, 

Around  the  maiden's  slender  waist, 


THE     BRIDAL      OF      BEL  MONT. 

And  raised  her  up  in  a  modest  way, 
From  the  cold,  bare  rock  on  which  she  lay. 
He  wras  but  a  mile  from  his  castle  gate. 
And  the  lady  was  scarcely  five  stone  weight ; 
He  stopped,  in  less  than  half  an  hour, 
With  his  beauteous  burden,  at  Belmont  Tower. 

Gayly,  I  ween,  was  the  chamber  dressed, 

As  the  Count  gave  order  for  his  guest ; 

But  scarcely  on  the  couch, 'tis  said, 

That  gentle  guest  was  fairly  laid, 

When  she  opened  at  once  her  great  blue  eyes, 

And,  after  a  glance  of  brief  surprise, 

Ere  she  had  spoken,  and  ere  she  had  heard 

Of  wisdom  or  wit  a  single  word, 

She  laughed  so  long,  and  laughed  so  loud, 

That  Dame  Ulrica  often  vowed 

A  dirge  is  a  merrier  thing  by  half 

Than  such  a  senseless,  soulless  laugh. 

Around  the  tower  the  elfin  crew 

Seemed  shouting  in  mirthful  concert  too ; 

And  echoed  roof,  and  trembled  rafter, 

With  that  unsentimental  laughter. 


- 


As  soon  as  that  droll  tumult  passed, 
The  maiden's  tongue,  unchained  at  last, 
Asserted  all  its  female  right, 
And  talked  and  talked  with  all  its  might. 
Oh,  how  her  low  and  liquid  voice 
Made  the  rapt  hearer's  soul  rejoice ! 


224  THE      BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT. 

'T  was  full  of  those  clear  tones  that  start 

From  innocent  childhood's  happy  heart, 

Ere  passion  and  sin  disturb  the  well 

In  which  their  mirth  and  music  dwell. 

But  man  nor  master  could  make  out 

What  the  eloquent  maiden  talked  about ; 

The  things  she  uttered  like  did  seem 

To  the  babbling  waves  of  a  limpid  stream  ; 

For  the  words  of  her  speech,  if  words  they  might  be, 

Were  the  words  of  a  speech  of  a  far  countrie ; 

And  wThen  she  had  said  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

Count  Otto  understood  no  more 

Than  you  or  I  of  the  slang  that  falls 

From  dukes  and  dupes  at  Tattersall's, 

Of  Hebrew  from  a  bearded  Jew, 

Or  metaphysics  from  a  Blue. 

Count  Otto  swore,  (Count  Otto's  reading 

Might  well  have  taught  him  better  breeding,) 

That  whether  the  maiden  should  fume  or  fret, 

The  maiden  should  not  leave  him  yet  • 

And  so  he  took  prodigious  pains 

To  make  her  happy  in  her  chains  ; 

From  Paris  came  a  pair  of  cooks. 

From  Gottingen  a  load  of  books ; 

From  Venice  stores  of  gorgeous  suits, 

From  Florence  minstrels  and  their  lutes ; 

The  youth  himself  had  special  pride 

In  breaking  horses  for  his  bride ; 

And  his  old  tutor,  Doctor  Hermann, 

Was  brought  from  Bonn  to  teach  her  German. 


THE      BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT.  225 

He  who  with  curious  step  hath  strayed 

Alone  through  some  suburban  shade, 

To  rural  Chelsea  sauntering  down, 

Or  wandering  over  Camclen  Town, 

The  sacred  mansions  oft  has  seen, 

"Whose  walls  are  white,  whose  gates  are  green, 

Where  ladies  with  respected  names, 

Miss  Black,  Miss  Brown,  Miss  Jenks,  Miss  James, 

For  fifty  pounds  a  year  or  so 

Teach  beauty  all  it  ought  to  know, — 

How  long  have  been  the  reigns  and  lives 

Of  British  monarchs  and  their  wives, — 

How  fast  the  twinkling  planets  run, 

From  age  to  age  about  the  sun, — 

The  depths  of  lakes,  the  heights  of  hills, 

The  rule  of  three,  the  last  quadrilles, 

Italian  airs,  Parisian  phrases, 

The  class  and  sex  of  shells  and  dasies, 

The  rules  of  grammar  and  of  grace, 

Right  sentiments,  and  thorough-bass. 

There  quick  the  young  idea  shoots, 

And  bears  its  blossoms  and  its  fruits. 

The  rosy  nymph,  who  nothing  knows 

But  just  to  scream  a  noisy  ballad, 
To  mend  her  little  brother's  hose, 

To  make  a  cake,  or  mix  a  salad, 
Tormented  for  a  year  or  two, 

(So  fast  the  female  wit  advances) 
Shall  grow  superlatively  blue, 

And  print  a  volume  of  romances. 
10* 


226  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BEL  MO  NT. 

But  ne'er  did  any  forward  child, 

In  any  such  sequestered  college, 
Trip  faster  than  my  maiden  Avilcl 

Through  every  path  of  useful  knowledge. 

In  May  o'er  grassy  hill  and  vale 

Like  some  young  fawn's  her  footsteps  bounded  ; 
In  May  upon  the  morning  gale 

Like  some  blithe  bird's  her  carols  sounded : 
June  came  ; — she  practised  pirouettes 

That  might  have  puzzled  Bigottini, 
And  decked  her  simple  canzonets 

With  shakes  that  would  have  charmed  Rossini. 
In  spring  to  her  the  A,  B,  C, 

Appeared  a  mystery  quite  as  murky 
As  galvanism  to  Owhyhee, 

Or  annual  Parliaments  to  Turkey ; 
But  when  upon  the  flood  and  fell 

Brown  autumn's  earliest  storms  were  low'ring, 
She  was  quite  competent  to  spell 

Through  all  the  books  of  Doctor  Bowring. 

No  cheerful  friend,  no  quiet  guest, 
Doth  Wisdom  come  to  human  breast  ; 
She  brings  the  day-beam,  but  in  sooth 
She  brings  its  trouble  with  its  truth. 
With  every  cloud  that  flits  and  flies 
Some  dear  delusion  fades  and  dies; 
With  every  flash  of  perfect  light 
Some  loveless  prospect  blasts  the  sight. 


THE      BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT.  227 

Shut  up  the  page  ;  for  in  its  lore 
Are  fears  and  doubts  tinfelt  before  : 
Fling  down  the  wreath ;  for  sorrow  weaves 
Amid  the  laurel  cypress  leaves. 

Moons  waxed  and  waned;  and  you  might  trace 

In  the  captive  maiden  gradual  change ; 
Ever  and  ever  of  form  and  face 

Some  charm  seemed  fresh  and  new  and  strange  : 
Over  her  cold  and  colorless  cheek 

The  blush  of  the  rose  began  to  glow, 
And  her  quickened  pulse  began  to  speak 

Of  human  bliss  and  human  woe  ; 
Her  features  kept  their  beauty  still, 

But  a  graver  shade  was  o'er  them  thrown ; 
Her  voice  had  yet  its  clear  soft  thrill, 

But  its  echo  took  a  sadder  tone. 

Oft,  till  the  Count  came  up  from  wine, 

She  sat  alone  by  the  lattice  high, 
Tracing  the  course  of  the  rolling  Rhine 

With  a  moody  brow  and  a  wistful  eye ; 
Still,  as  the  menials  oft  averred, 

Talking  and  talking,  low  and  long, 
In  that  droll  language  which  they  heard, 

At  her  first  coming,  from  her  tongue. 
None  but  the  Pope  of  Rome,  they  deemed, 

Could  construe  what  the  damsel  said  ; 
But  this  they  knew,  by  turns  she  seemed 

To  soothe,  to  threaten,  to  upbraid. 


228  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BEL  MO  XT. 

And  oft  on  a,  crag  at  dawn  she  stood, 

Her  golden  harp  in  her  pretty  hand, 
And  sang  such  songs  to  the  gargling  flood 

As  an  exile  sings  to  his  native  land; 
Till,  if  a  listener  dared  intrude, 

She  hastened  back  to  the  postern-gate, 
Blushing,  as  if  her  solitude 

Were  as  dear  and  as  wron^  as  a  tute-d-tute. 


'Twas  wondrous  all ;  but  most  of  all, 
That,  held  in  strict  though  gentle  thrall, 
She  seemed  so  slow  to  take  upon  II;T 
The  style  and  state  of  threatened  honor. 
For  often,  when  on  bended  knee 
Count  Otto  pressed  his  amorous  plea, 
And  begged,  before  his  heart  should  break, 
She'd  be  a  Countess  for  his  sake, 
Without  the  slightest  show  of  flurry, 
She  chid  his  heat,  and  checked  his  hurry  : 
He  might  allow  her  time,  she  said, 
To  learn  the  life  his  Lordship  led  ; 
Such  hawking,  hunting,  dining,  drinking, — 
At  times  she  felt  her  poor  heart  sinking ! 
At  home,  in  bt'd  the  livelong  day, 
She  lived  in  such  a  different  way ; 
So  calm,  so  cool, — her  father's  daughter 
Was  ne\T  a  minute  in  hot  water. 

Then  their  acquaintance,  she  must  state, 
Was  of  a  very  recent  date  ; 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     B  ELMO  XT.  229 

They  met  in  May,  he  should  remember, 
And  now  were  hardly  in  December ; 
Such  eyes  as  hers,  she  had  a  notion, 
Were  worth  at  least  a  year's  devotion. 
Her  kindred  had  their  fancies  too 
Of  what  young  ladies  ought  to  do  : 
All  sorts  of  mischief  might  befall, 
If  rashly  in  her  father's  hall 
Before  twelve  months  of  courtship  ended 
She  showed  her  face  with  her  intended. — 
But  where  that  father's  hall  ? — vain,  v:dn  ; 

She  turned  her  eyes  in  silence  down  ; 
And  if  you  dared  to  ask  again, 

Her  only  answer  was  a  frown. 
Some  people  have  a  knack,  we  know, 
Of  saying  things  mal-a-propos, 
And  making  all  the  world  reflect 
On  what  it  hates  to  recollect. 
They  talk  to  misers  of  their  heir, 
To  women  of  the  days  that  were, 
To  ruined  gamblers  of  the  box, 
To  thin  defaulters  of  the  stocks, 
To  poets  of  the  wrong  Review, 
And  to  the  French  of  Waterloo. 
The  Count  was  not  of  these  ;  he  never 
Was  half  so  clumsy,  half  so  clever  ; 
And  when  he  found  the  girl  would  rather 
Say  nothing  more  about  her  father, 
He  changed  the  subject — toVl  a  fable — 
Believed  that  dinner  was  on  table — 


230  THE     BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT. 

Or  hinted,  with  an  air  of  sorrow, 
The  certainty  of  rain  to  morrow. 

Meantime  the  world  began  to  prate 

Of  young  Count  Otto's  purposed  marriage ; 
Discussed  the  jewels  and  the  plate, 

Described  the  dresses  and  the  carriage. 
The  lady's  rank,  the  lady's  name, 

As  usual  in  such  curious  cases, 
Were  asked  by  many  a  noble  dame, 

With  most  expressive  tones  and  faces ; 
The  grave  and  gay,  the  old  and  young, 

Looked  very  arch,  or  very  serious  ; 
Some  whispered  something  that  was  Avrong, 

Some  murmured  much  that  was  mysterious. 

One  aunt,  a  strict  old  maiden,  thought, — 

And  could  not  bear  the  thought  to  smother,- 
Young  persons  positively  ought 

To  have  a  father  and  a  mother; 
And  wondered,  with  becoming  scorn, 

How  far  presumption  might  be  carried, 
When  hussies  who  had  ne'er  been  born 

Began  to  think  of  being  married  : 
Another,  fair,  and  kind  as  fair, 

Was  heard  by  many  to  protest 
It  was  her  daily  wish  and  prayer 

That  she  might  see  her  nephew  blest ; 
And  though,  as  matters  stood,  of  course 

"Twas  quite  impossible  to  call 


THE      BRIDAL      OF     BELMONT.  231 

On  somebody,  whom  she  perforce 

Considered  nobody  at  all, 
When  once  the  Church  had  done  its  part, 

And  ratified  the  Count's  selection, 
She'd  clasp  the  Countess  to  her  heart, 

Impromptu,  with  profound  affection. 

The  winter  storms  went  darkly  by, 
And,  from  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky, 
Again  the  sun  looked  cheerfully 

Upon  the  rolling  Rhine  ; 

And  spring  brought  back  to  the  budding  flowers 
Its  genial  light  and  freshening  showers, 
And  music  to  the  shady  bowers, 

And  verdure  to  the  vine. 

And  now  it  is  the  first  of  May  ; 
For  twenty  miles  round  all  is  gay  ; 
Cottage  and  castle  keep  holiday  ; 

For  how  should  sorrow  lower 
On  brow  of  rustic  or  of  knight, 
When  heaven  itself  looks  all  so  bright, 
Where  Otto's  wedding  feast  is  dight 

In  the  hall  of  Belmont  Tower  ? 

For  the  maiden's  hair  the  wreath  is  wrought; 
For  the  maiden's  hand  the  ring  is  bought ; 
Be  she  a  Fiend,  or  be  she  a  Fay, 
She  shall  be  Otto's  bride  to-day. 
And  he, — for  he  at  last  discovers 
That  "  no"  is  a  word  unfit  for  lovers, — 


232  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BKLMONT. 

Has  promised,  as  soon  as  the  priest  has  done 

The  terrible  rite  that  makes  them  one, 

To  step  with  her  to  the  carriage  and  four 

That  waits  e'en  now  at  the  castle  door, 

And  post  to  visit — "  although,"  saith  she, 

"  A  very  odd  road  our  road  may  be" — 

Her  father,  her  mother,  and  two  or  three  dozens 

Of  highly  respectable  aunts  and  cousins  : 

And  he  has  sanctioned  his  consent, 

Lest  he  should  happen  to  repent, 

By  a  score  or  more  of  the  oaths  that  slip, 

As  matters  of  course,  from  a  bridegroom's  lip. 

Stately  matron  and  warrior  tall 
Come  to  the  joyous  festival ; 
Gladly  Otto  welcomes  all, 

As  through  the  gate  they  throng ; 
He  fills  to  the  brim  the  wassail  cup  ; 
In  the  bright  wine  pleasure  sparkles  up, 

And  draughts  and  tales  grow  long ; 
But  grizzly  knights  are  still  and  mute, 
And  dames  set  down  the  untasted  fruit, 
When  the  bride  awakes  her  golden  lute, 

And  charms  them  all  with  song. 

"  The  dawn  is  past,  the  dusk  comes  fast, 

Xo  longer  may  I  roam  ; 
Full  soon,  full  soon,  the  young  May  moon 

Will  guide  the  truant  home: 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Hasten  we,  hasten,  groom  and  bride ; 

How  merry  we  shall  be ! 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me. 

"  Though  treasures  old  of  silver  and  gold 

Lie  in  thy  secret  store, 
I  bring  thee  to-night,  to  charm  thy  sight, 

Gifts  thou  wilt  value  more ; 
Knightly  valor,  and  lordly  pride, 

Leal  heart,  and  spirit  free ; — 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me. 

"  I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  and  fear, 

The  old  familiar  tone  ; 
I  hear  him  call  to  his  ancient  hall 

His  favorite,  his  own  ; 
How  will  he  chafe  and  how  will  he  chide ! 

For  a  fretful  mood  hath  he  ; — 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me  !" 

The  nurses  to  the  children  say 

That,  as  the  maiden  sang  that  day, 

The  Rhine  to  the  heights  of  the  beetling  tower 

Sent  up  a  cry  of  fiercer  power, 

And  again  the  maiden's  cheek  was  grown 

As  white  as  ever  \vas  marble  stone, 

And  the  bridesmaid  her  hand  could  hardly  hold, 

Its  fino-ers  were  so  icv  cold. 


234  THE      BRIDAL     OF     BELMOXT. 

Rose  Count  Otto  from  the  feast, 

As  entered  the  hall  the  hoary  priest. 

A  stalwart  warrior,  well  I  ween, 

That  hoary  priest  in  his  youth  had  been ; 

But  the  might  of  his  manhood  he  had  given 

To  penance  and  prayer,  the  Church  and  Heaven. 

For  he  had  travelled  o'er  land  and  wave ; 

He  had  kneeled  on  many  a  martyr's  grave  ; 

He  had  prayed  in  the  meek  St.  Jerome's  cell, 

And  had  tasted  St.  Anthony's  blessed  well. 

And  reliques  round  his  neck  had  he, 

Each  worth  a  haughty  kingdom's  fee — 

Scrapings  of  bones,  and  points  of  spears, 

And  vials  of  authentic  tears — 

From  a  prophet's  coffin  a  hallowed  nail, 

And  a  precious  shred  of  our  Lady's  veil  ; 

And  therefore  at  his  awful  tread, 

The  powers  of  darkness  shrank  with  dread  ; 

And  Satan  felt  that  no  disguise 

Could  hide  mm  from  those  chastened  eyes. 

He  looked  on  the  bridegroom,  he  looked  on  the  bride, 

The  young  Count  smiled,  but  the  old  priest  sighed. 

"  Fields  with  the  father  1  have  won  ; 
I  am  come  in  my  cowl  to  bless  the  son  ; 
Count  Otto,  ere  thou  bend  thy  knee, 
What  shall  the  hire  of  my  service  be?" 

"  Greedy  hawk  must  gorge  his  prey, 
Pious  priest  must  grasp  his  pay  ; 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  235 

Name  the  guerdon,  and  so  to  the  task  ; 
Thine  it  is,  ere  thy  lips  can  ask." 

He  frowned  as  he  answered — "  Gold  and  gem, 
Count  Otto,  little  I  reck  of  them ; 
But  your  bride  has  skill  of  the  lute,  they  say : 
Let  her  sing  me  the  song  I  shall  name  to-day." 

Loud  laughed  the  Count :   ';  And  if  she  refuse 
The  ditty,  Sir  Priest   thy  whim  shall  choose, 
Row  back  to  the  house  of  old  St.  Goar ; 
1  never  bid  priest  to  a  bridal  more." 

Beside  the  maiden  he  took  his  stand, 
He  gave  the  lute  to  her  trembling  hand  ; 
She  gazed  around  with  a  troubled  eye  ; 
The  guests  all  shuddered,  and  knew  not  why  ; 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  a  gloom 
Had  shrouded  all  the  banquet  room, 
Though  over  its  boards,  and  over  its  beams. 
Sunlight  was  glowing  in  merry  streams. 

The  stern  priest  throws  an  angry  glance 
On  that  pale  creature's  countenance  ; 
Unconsciously  her  white  hand  flings 
Its  soft  touch  o'er  the  answering  strings  ; 
The  good  man  starts  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
And  half  relents  from  his  purposed  will ; 
But  he  signs  the  cross  on  his  aching  brow 
And  arms  his  soul  for  its  warfare  now. 


236  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

"  Mortal  maid  or  goblin  fairy, 

Sing  me,  I  pray  thee,  an  Ave-Mary !" 

Suddenly  the  maiden  bent 
O'er  the  gorgeous  instrument  j 
But  of  song,  the  listeners  heard 
Only  one  wild,  mournful  word— 

"Lurley!  Lurley !" 
And  when  the  sound,  in  the  liquid  air, 

Of  that  brief  hymn  had  faded, 
Nothing  was  left  of  the  nymph  who  there 

For  a  year  had  masqueraded ; 
But  the  harp  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  hall  set, 

Where  her  last  strange  word  was  spoken  ! 
The  golden  frame  with  tears  was  wet, 

And  all  the  strings  were  broken ! 

(Written  in  1831 ;  but  revised  by  the  Author  and  largely  added 
to  in  1837.  In  the  original  version  the  song  of  the  bride  stood 
thus : — 

"A  voice  ye  hear  not,  in  mine  ear  is  crying; — 

What  does  the  sad  voice  say? 
'  Dost  thou  not  heed  thy  weary  father's  sighing  ? 
Return,  return  to-day! 

Twelve  moons  have  faded  now : 
My  daughter,  where  art  thou  ?' 

"  Peace!  in  the  silent  evening  we  will  meet  thee, 

Gray  ruler  of  the  tide  ! 

Must  not  the  lover  with  the  loved  one  greet  thee  ? 
The  bridegroom  with  his  bride  ? 
Deck  the  dim  couch  aright, 
The  bridal  couch,  to-night,") 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

THE  way  was  lone,  and  the  hour  was  late, 

And  Sir  Rudolph  was  far  from  his  castle  gate. 

The  night  came  down,  by  slow  degrees, 

On  the  river  stream,  and  the  forest-trees  ; 

And  by  the  heat  of  the  heavy  air, 

And  by  the  lightning's  distant  glare, 

And  by  the  rustling  of  the  woods, 

And  by  the  roaring  of  the  floods, 

In  half  an  hour,  a  man  might  say, 

The  Spirit  of  Storm  would  ride  that  way. 

But  little  he  cared,  that  stripling  pale, 

For  the  sinking  sun,  or  the  rising  gale  ; 

For  he.  as  he  rode,  was  dreaming  now, 

Poor  youth,  of  a  woman's  broken  vow, 

Of  the  cup  dashed  down,  ere  the  wine  was  tasted, 

Of  eloquent  speeches  sadly  wasted, 

Of  a  gallant  hoart  all  burnt  to  ashes, 

A.nd  the  Baron  of  Katzberg's  long  mustaches. 

So  the  earth  below,  and  the  heaven  above, 

He  saw  them  not ; — those  dreams  of  love, 

As  some  have  found,  and  some  will  find, 

Make  men  extremely  deaf  and  blind. 


238       THE     LEGEND      OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAU8, 

At  last  he  opened  his  great  blue  eyes, 
And  looking  about  in  vast  surprise, 
Found  that  his  hunter  had  turned  his  back, 
An  hour  ago,  on  the  beaten  track, 
And  now  was  threading  a  forest  hoar, 
Where  steed  had  never  stepped  before. 

"By  Caesar's  head,"  Sir  Rudolph  said, 
"  It  were  a  sorry  joke, 
Jf  I  to-night  should  make  my  bed 

On  the  turf,  beneath  an  oak ! 
Poor  Roland  reeks  from  head  to  hoof; — 

Now,  for  thy  sake,  good  roan, 
I  would  we  were  beneath  a  roof, 
Were  it  the  foul  fiend's  own  !" 

Ere  the  tongue  could  rest,  ere  the  lips  could  close, 

The  sound  of  a  listener's  laughter  rose. 

It  was  not  the  scream  of  a  merry  boy 

When  harlequin  waves  his  wand  of  joy  ; 

Nor  the  shout  from  a  serious  curate,  won 

By  a  bending  bishop's  annual  pun  ; 

Nor  the  roar  of  a  Yorkshire  clown ; — oh,  no  ! 

It  was  a  gentle  laugh,  and  low ; 

Half  uttered,  perhaps,  and  stifled  half, 

A  good  old-gentlemanly  laugh ; 

Such  as  my  uncle  Peter's  are, 

When  he  tells  you  his  tales  of  Dr.  Parr. 

The  rider  looked  to  the  left  and  the  right, 

With  something  of  marvel,  and  more  of  fright: 


THE      LEGEND     OF     THE     TEUFEL    HACS.       239 

But  brighter  gleamed  his  anxious  eye, 
When  a  light  shone  out  from  a  hill  hard  by. 
Thither  he  spurred,  as  gay  and  glad 
As  Mrs.  Macquill's  delighted  lad, 
When  he  turns  a\vay  from  the  Pleas  of  the  Crown, 
Or  flings,  with  a  yawn,  old  Saunders  down, 
And  flies,  at  last,  from  all  the  mysteries 
Of  Plaintiffs'  and  Defendants'  histories, 
To  make  himself  sublimely  neat, 
For  Mrs.  Camac's  in  Mansfield  Street. 
At  a  lofty  gate  Sir  Rudolph  halted  ; 
Down  from  his  seat  Sir  Rudolph  vaulted  : 
And  he  blew  a  blast  with  might  and  main, 
On  the  bugle  that  hung  by  an  iron  chain. 
The  sound  called  up  a  score  of  sounds ; — 
The  screeching  of  owls,  and  the  baying  of  hounds, 
The  hollow  toll  of  the  turret  bell. 
The  call  of  the  watchful  sentinel, 
And  a  groan  at  last,  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 
As  the  huge  old  portals  rolled  asunder, 
And  gravely  from  the  castle  hall 
Paced  forth  the  white-robed  seneschal. 
He  stayed  not  to  ask  of  what  degree 
So  fair  and  famished  a  knight  might  be ; 
But  knowing  that  all  untimely  question 
Ruffles  the  temper,  and  mars  the  digestion, 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  crupper, 

And  said, — "  You're  just  in  time  for  supper!'7 
They  led  him  to  the  smoking  board, 

A.nd  placed  him  next  to  the  castle's  lord. 


240   THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   TEUFKL-HAU8. 

lie  looked  around  with  a  hurried  glance: 

You  may  ride  from  the  border  to  fair  Penzance, 

And  nowhere,  but  at  Epsom  Races, 

Find  such  a  group  of  ruffian  faces 

As  thronged  that  chamber:  some  were  talking 

Of  feats  of  hunting  and  of  hawking, 

And  some  were  drunk,  and  some  were  dreaming, 

And  some  found  pleasure  in  blaspheming. 

He  thought,  as  he  gazed  on  the  fearful  crew, 

That  the  lamps  that  burned  on  the  walls  burned  blue. 

They  brought  him  a  pasty  of  mighty  size, 

To  cheer  his  heart,  and  to  charm  his  eyes ; 

They  brought  the  wine,  so  rich  and  old, 

And  filled  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  gold  ; 

The  knight  looked  down,  and  the  knight  looked  up, 

But  he  carved  not  the  meat,  and  he  drained  not  the  cup, 

"  Ho,  ho,"  said  his  host  with  angry  brow, 

"  I  wot  our  guest  is  fine ; 
Our  fare  is  far  too  coarse,  T  trow, 
For  such  nice  taste  as  thine  : 
Yet  trust  me  I  have  cooked  the  food, 

And  I  have  filled  the  can, 
Since  I  have  lived  in  this  old  wood, 

For  many  a  nobler  man." — 
"  The  savory  buck  and  the  ancient  cask 

To  a  weary  man  are  sweet ; 
But  ere  he  taste,  it  is  fit  he  ask 

For  a  blessing  on  bowl  and  meat. 


THELEGEXD      OF      THE      TEUFEL-HAUS.       2- 

Let  me  but  pray  for  a  minute's  space, 

And  bid  me  pledge  ye  then  ; 
I  swear  to  ye,  by  our  Lady's  grace, 

I  shall  eat  and  drink  like  ten  !" 

The  lord  of  the  castle  in  wrath  arose, 

He  frowned  like  a  fiery  dragon  ; 
Indignantly  he  blew  his  nose,     . 

And  overturned  the  flagon. 

And,  "Away,"  quoth  he,  "with  the  canting  priest, 
Who  comes  uncalled  to  a  midnight  feast, 
And  breathes  through  a  helmet  his  holy  benison, 
To  sour  my  hock,  and  spoil  my  venison !" 

That  moment  all  the  lights  went  out ; 

And  they  dragged  him  forth,  that  rabble  rout, 

With  oath,  and  threat,  and  foul  scurrility, 

And  every  sort  of  incivility. 

They  barred  the  gates  ;  and  the  peal  of  laughter, 

Sudden  and  shrill,  that  followed  after, 

Died  off  into  a  dismal  tone, 

Like  a  parting  spirit's  painful  moan. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Rudolph,  as  he  stood 

On  foot  in  the  deep  and  silent  wood ; 

"  I  wish,  good  Roland,  rack  and  stable 

May  be  kinder  to-night  than  their  master's  table  !'' 

By  this  the  storm  had  fleeted  by  ; 

And  the  moon  with  a  quiet  smile  looked  out 
From  the  glowing  arch  of  a  cloudless  sky, 

Flinging  her  silvery  beams  about 
11 


242   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

On  rock,  tree,  wave,  and  gladdening  all 

With  just  as  miscellaneous  bounty, 
As  Isabel's,  whose  sweet  smiles  fall 

In  half  an  hour  on  half  the  county. 
Less  wild  Sir  Rudolph's  pathway  seemed, 

As  he  turned  from  that  discourteous  tower  ; 
Small  spots  of  verdure  gayly  gleamed 

On  either  side ;  and  many  a  flower, 
Lily,  and  violet,  and  heart's-ease, 

Grew  by  the  way,  a  fragrant  border ; 
And  the  tangled  boughs  of  the  hoary  trees 

Were  twined  in  picturesque  disorder  : 
And  there  came  from  the  grove,  and  there  came  from 
the  hill 

The  loveliest  sounds  he  had  ever  heard, 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  dancing  rill, 

And  the  sad,  sad  song  of  the  lonely  bird. 

And  at  last  he  stared  writh  wondering  eyes, 

As  well  he  might,  on  a  huge  pavilion : 
'Twas  clothed  with  stuffs  of  a  hundred  dyes, 

Blue,  purple,  orange,  pink,  vermilion ; 
And  there  were  quaint  devices  traced 

All  round  in  the  Saracenic  manner  j 
And  the  top  which  gleamed  like  gold,  was  graced 

With  the  drooping  folds  of  a  silken  banner ; 
And  on  the  poles,  in  silent  pride, 

There  sat  small  doves  of  white  enamel ; 
And  the  veil  from  the  entrance  was  drawn  aside, 

And  flung  on  the  humps  of  a  silver  camel. 


THE   LEGEND   OF  THE   TEUFEL-HAUS.   243 

In  short  it  was  the  sweetest  thing 

For  a  weary  youth  in  a  wood  to  light  on  ; 
And  finer  far  than  what  a  king 

Built  up,  to  prove  his  taste,  at  Brighton. 

The  gilded  gate  was  all  unbarred  ; 
And,  close  beside  it,  for  a  guard, 
There  lay  two  dwarfs  with  monstrous  noses, 
Both  fast  asleep  upon  some  roses. 
Sir  Rudolph  entered ;  rich  and  bright 
Was  all  that  met  his  ravished  sight ; 
Soft  tapestries  from  far  countries  brought, 
Rare  cabinets  with  gems  inwrought, 
White  vases  of  the  finest  mould, 
And  mirrors  set  in  burnished  gold. 
Upon  a  couch  a  grayhound  slumbered ; 
And  a  small  table  was  encumber'd 
With  paintings,  and  an  ivory  lute, 
And  sweetmeats,  and  delicious  fruit. 
Sir  Rudolph  lost  no  time  in  praising  ; 
For  he,  I  should  have  said,  was  gazing, 
In  attitude  extremely  tragic, 
Upon  a  sight  of  stranger  magic ; 
A  sight,  which,  seen  at  such  a  season, 
Might  well  astonish  Mistress  Reason, 
And  scare  Dame  Wisdom  from  her  fences 
Of  rules  and  maxims,  moods  and  tenses. 
Beneath  a  crimson  canopy 

A  lady,  passing  fair,  was  lying ; 
Deep  sleep  was  on  her  gentle  eye, 

And  in  her  slumber  she  was  sighing 


244       THE     LEGEND     OF     THE      TEUFEL-HATTS, 

Bewitching  sighs,  such  sighs  as  say 

Beneath  the  moonlight,  to  a  lover, 
Things  which  the  coward  tongue  by  day 

Would  not,  for  all  the  world,  discover : 
She  lay  like  a  shape  of  sculptured  stone, 
So  pale,  so  tranquil : — she  had  thrown, 

For  the  warm  evening's  sultriness, 
The  broidered  coverlet  aside; 
And  nothing  was  there  to  deck  or  hide 

The  glory  of  her  loveliness, 
But  a  scarf  of  gauze  so  light  and  thin 
You  might  see  beneath  the  dazzling  skin, 
And  watch  the  purple  streamlets  go 
Through  the  valleys  of  white  and  stainless  snow, 
Or  here  and  there  a  wayward  tress 
Which  wandered  out  with  vast  assurance 
From  the  pearls  that  kept  the  rest  in  durance. 
And  fluttered  about,  as  if  'twould  try 
To  lure  a  zephyr  from  the  sky. 

"  Bertha  !" — large  drops  of  anguish  came 

On  Rudolph's  brow,  as  he  breathed  that  name, — 

'•  Oh  fair  and  false  one,  wake,  and  fear  ; 

I  the  betrayed,  the  scorned,  am  here." 

The  eye  moved  not  from  its  dull  eclipse, 

The  voice  came  not  from  the  fast-shut  lips ; 

No  matter  !  well  that  gazer  knew 

The  tone  of  bliss,  and  the  eyes  of  blue. 

Sir  Rudolph  hid  his  burning  face 
With  both  his  hands  for  a  minute's  space, 


THE     LEGEND      OF    THE      TEUFEL-HAUS.        245 

And  all  his  frame  in  awful  fashion 
Was  shaken  by  some  sudden  passion. 
What  guilty  fancies  o'er  him  ran  1 — 

Oh,  Pity  will  be  slow  to  guess  them  ; 
And  never,  save  to  the  holy  man, 

Did  good  Sir  Rudolph  e'er  confess  them, 
But  soon  his  spirit  you  might  deem 
Came  forth  from  the  shade  of  the  fearful  dream  ; 
His  cheek,  though  pale,  was  calm  again, 
And  he  spoke  in  peace,  though  he  spoke  in  pain  : 

"  Not  mine  !  not  mine  !  now,  Mary,  mothor, 
Aid  me  the  sinful  hope  to  smother ! 
Not  mine,  not  mine ! — I  have  loved  thee  long  ; 
Thou  hast  quitted  me  with  grief  and  wrong. 
But  pure  the  heart  of  a  knight  should  be, — 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  thou  art  safe  for  me. 
Yet  shalt  thou  know  by  a  certain  sign, 
Whose  lips  have  been  so  near  to  thine, 
Whose  eyes  have  looked  upon  thy  sleep, 
And  turned  away,  and  longed  to  weep, 
Whose  heart, — mourn, — madden  as  it  will, — 
Has  spared  thee,  and  adored  thee,  still  !" 

His  purple  mantle,  rich  and  wide, 
From  his  neck  the  trembling  youth  Untied, 
And  flung  it  o'er  those  dangerous  charms. 
The  swelling  neck,  and  the  rounded  arms. 
Once  more  he  looked,  once  more  he  sighed  ; 
And  away,  away,  from  the  perilous  tent. 

Swift  as  the  rush  of  an  eagle's  wing, 

Or  the  flight  of  a  shaft  from  Tartar  string, 
Into  the  wood  Sir  Rudolph  went  : 


246   THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   TEUFEL-HAUS 

Not  with  more  joy  the  school-boys  run 

To  the  gay  green  fields,  when  their  task  is  done ; 

Not  with  more  haste  the  members  fly, 

When  Hume  has  caught  the  Speaker's  eye. 

At  last  the  daylight  came  ;  and  then 
A  score  or  two  of  serving  men, 
Supposing  that  some  sad  disaster 
Had  happened  to  their  lord  and  master, 
Went  out  into  the  wood,  and  found  him, 
Unhorsed,  and  with  no  mantle  round  him. 
Ere  he  could  tell  his  tale  romantic, 
The  leech  pronounced  him  clearly  frantic, 
So  ordered  him  at  once  to  bed, 
And  clapped  a  blister  on  his  head. 

Within  the  sound  of  the  castle-clock 
There  stands  a  huge  and  rugged  rock, 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  the  grieving  groom  at  noon  that  day 
Found  gallant  Eoland,  cold  and  stiff, 
At  the  base  of  the  black  and  beetling  cliff. 

Beside  the  rock  there  is  an  oak, 
Tall,  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke, 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  there  Sir  Rudolph's  mantle  lay, 
And  coiled  in  many  a  deadly  wreath 
A  venomous  serpent  slept  beneath. 

(1830) 


THE  RED  FISHERMAN. 

OK 

THE  DEVIL'S  DECOY. 


'0  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  them  fishified!" 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 


THE  abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  his  sandal  shoon, 
And  wandered  forth,  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon  : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around  ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound  : 
It  was  not  an  hour,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by, 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds  : 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads ; 
If  he  looked  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there  ; 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 


248  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

A  pious  priest  might  the  abbot  seem, 
He  had  swayed  the  crosier  well ; 

But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  abbot's  dream, 
The  abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 

Companionless,  for  a  mile  or  more, 

He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 

Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 

As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 

And  many  a  dim  o'erarching  grove, 

And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove, 

And  terraced  lawns,  whose  bright  arcades 

The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades, 

And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seemed  bowers, 

So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers ! 

But  the  abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery, 

About  as  much  in  sooth, 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy, 

Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 
Pie  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head ; 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread  ; 
And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near, 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless; 
From  the  river  stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  a  half  a  rood  ; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 

And  the  scent  uf  l;i:;^an  l.Jcod  ; 


THE     K  E  D     FISHERMAN.  L'49 

The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul ; 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  Company  pumped  ; 
And  the  perch,  that  was  netted  and  laid  on  the  bank, 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped : 
And  bold  was  he  wrho  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy ; 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "  The  Devil's  Decoy  !" 

The  abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  be, 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  : 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan  ? 

O  ho !  O  ho ! 

Above,  below ! 

Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go  ; 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leaping, 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping ; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy, 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy  !" 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right, 
And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him  1 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run: 
The  startled  priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 

And  the  abbev  clock  struck  one  ! 
11* 


50  THE     K  E  O     F  I  S  H  E  K  M  A  A'  . 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool, 

Kicking  his  heels  on  the  dewy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod ; 

Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore, 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare  , 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck, 

Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  Time,  or  it  might  be  trouble, 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double — 

Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets, 

And  shrunk  and  shrivelled  that  tawny  skin, 

Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  abbot  sawr  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages  ago, 

And  the  hands  that  worked  his  foreign  vest 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on  them, 

He  had  fished  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and  Shem  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly — 

It  seemed  not  such  to  the  abbot's  eye  ; 

Gayly  it  glittered  with  jewel  and  gem, 

And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 

It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about, 

By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without ; 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  251 

The  fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spin, 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth — 
Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel ; 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echoed  from  the  dungeon  stone ; 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry 
Of  a  stripling's  agony  ! 

Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air ; 

But  the  abbot's  blood  ran  colder, 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair, 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster  ; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 
Was  camped  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain — 

The  cruel  Duke  of   Gloster  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size, 

Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 

The  corpulent  abbot  knew  full  well 

The  swelling  form,  and  the  steaming  smell  ; 

Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 

Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 

ftnrrv 


252  THE      RED      FISHERMAN. 

Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  revelling  company — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Rated  servant,  greeted  guest, 
Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork, 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  I  ween,  was  never  said ! 

Pulling  and  tugging  the  fisherman  sat ; 

And  the  priest  was  ready  to  vomit, 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  fat. 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat, 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"  A  capital  stew,"  the  fisherman  said, 

'•With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !" 
And  the  abbot  turned  away  his  head, 
For  his  brother  was  lying  before  him  dead, 

The  mayor  of  St.  Edmond's  Bury ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locky, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box : 

It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things — 

A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 

A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 

A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 

And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet  fold 

Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odors  rolled, 


THE      RED     FISHERMAN.  ;>  53 

That  the  abbot  fell  on  his  face,  and  fainted, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs> 
And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words  : 

"  Smile,  lady,  smile  ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  my  brow  the  coronet, 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Will  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin1? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still  1" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fair; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away, 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
"Ah  ha !"  said  the  fisher,  in  merry  guise, 


254  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

"  Her  gallant  was  hooked  before  j" 
And  the  abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  blessed  those  deep  blue  eyes, 
The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 

Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside ; 

A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 

A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest, 

Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 

Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice, 

And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 

That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy  vine ; 

There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 

As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre  ! 

From  top  to  toe  the  abbot  shook, 

As  the  fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook  ; 

And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 

By  some  dark  dream  or  wrakened  thought. 

Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 

On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises. 

When  the  lips  are  cracked  and  the  jaws  are  dry 

With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall  die  : 

Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown 

As  the  swaling  wherry  settles  down, 

When  peril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will, 

Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  still  : 

Wilder  far  wras  the  abbot's  glance, 

Deeper  far  was  the  abbot's  trance  : 


THE      RED      FISHERMAN.  L;  5<J 

Fixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 
He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer ; 
But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how — 
The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 

"  O  ho  !  O  ho  ! 

The  cock  doth  crow; 
It  is  time  for  the  fisher  to  rise  and  go. 
Fair  luck  to  the  abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shrine! 
He  hath  gnawed  in  twain  my  choicest  line ; 
Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the  south, 
The  abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  his  mouth !" 

The  abbot  had  preached  for  many  years, 

With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  Emancipation  ; 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs ; 
He  kept  the  court  an  hour  awake, 

And  the  king  himself  three  quarters : 
But  ever,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered, 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  uttered. 
He  stuttered  o'er  blessing,  he  stuttered  o'er  ban, 

He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry  ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  ! 
(1827.) 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FANCY. 


LIDIAN'S  LOVE. 


The  gayest  gallants  of  the  Court 
Oft  fell  in  love,  on  mere  report, 

With  eyes  they  had  not  seen  ; 
And  knelt,  and  rhymed,  and  sighed,  and  frowned. 
In  talisman ic  fetters  bound, 
With  flowers  and  sunshine  all  around — 

And  five-score  leagues  between. — MS.  Poem. 

I. 

SIR  LIDIAN  had  attained  his  sixteenth  year  ; 

The  golden  age  of  life,  wherein  are  met 
Boyhood's  last  hope  and  Manhood's  earliest  fear 

In  mingled  bliss  and  beauty  ; — you  forget 
Your  cradle's  laughter,  and  your  school-room's  tear, 

Your  maiden  medal,  and  your  first  gazette  ; 
But  never,  never,  the  bright  dreams  that  blind  you 
When  sixteen  years  are  newly  left  behind  you. 

n. 

The  daily  longings  to  be  very  great, 
The  nightly  studies  to  be  very  killing, 

The  blessed  recklessness  of  human  hate, 
The  sonnet-singing,  and  the  sigh-distilling, 

The  chase  of  folly,  and  the  scorn  of  fate, 

Friendship's  fresh  throb,  and  Passion's  April  thrill 
ing 

For  some  high  lady,  whom  your  elder  brother 

Declares  is  old  enough  to  be  your  mother. 


260  LID  I  AN    S     LOVE. 

III. 

Sir  Lidian  had  attained  his  sixteenth  year, 
And  was  the  loveliest  stripling  in  the  land : 

His  small  soft  features  and  his  color  clear 

Were  like  a  budding  girl's  ;  his  delicate  hand 

Seemed  fitter  for  the  distaff  than  the  spear  ; 
Locks  of  bright  brown  his  spotless  forehead  fanned  ; 

And  he  had  eyes  as  blue  as  summer's  heaven, 

And  stood  a  little  more  than  five  feet  seven. 

IV. 

No  gallant  flung  a  lance  so  fleet  and  true 

From  the  trained  courser  through  the  golden  ring, 

No  joyous  harper  at  the  banquet  threw 

A  lighter  touch  across  the  sounding  string; 

Yet  on  his  cheek  there  was  the  hectic  hue 
And  in  his  eye  the  fitful  wandering 

Which  chill  our  praise  to  pity,  that  a  bloom 

So  fresh  and  fair  is  destined  to  the  tomb  ! 

v.  * 

And  though  he  danced  and  played,  as  I  have  hinted, 
In  dance  and  song  he  took  but  little  pleasure  ; 

He  looked  contented  though  his  partner  squinted, 
And  seldom  frowned  when  minstrels  marred  the 
measure ; 

When  the  rich  sky  by  evening's  glow  was  tinted, 
More  glad  was  he  to  wander  at  his  leisure, 

Despising  fogs,  apostrophizing  fountains, 

Wasting  the  time,  and  worshipping  the  mountains. 


LIBIA  N'S     LOVE.  261 

VI. 

And  yet  he  had  not  loved  ! — his  early  fancies 
Of  love,  first  love,  the  transport  and  the  pain, 

Had  been  extracted  from  the  best  romances, 
And  were,  perhaps,  of  too  sublime  a  strain ; 

So  when  he  woke  from  those  delicious  trances, 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  chose  to  sleep  again, 

Shunning  realities  for  shades,  and  fleeing 

From  all  he  saw  to  all  he  dreamed  of  seeing. 

VII. 

In  starlit  dells  and  zephyr-haunted  bowers, 
Moistened  by  rivulets  \vhose  milky  foam 

Murmured  the  sweetest  music,  where  warm  showers 
That  trickled  fresh  from  Heaven's  eternal  dome 

Watered  bright  jewels  that  spring  up  like  floAvers, — 
In  such  a  scene  his  fancy  found  a  home, 

A  Paradise  of  Fancy's  fabrication. 

Peopled  by  Houris  of  the  heart's  creation  ; 

VIII. 

Who  never  thrummed  upon  the  virginals, 
Nor  tripped  by  rule,  nor  fortunately  fainted, 

Nor  practised  paying  compliments  and  calls, 
Looking  satirical,  or  looking  sainted, 

Nor  shrieked  at  tournaments,  nor  blushed  at  balls, 
Nor  lisped,  nor  sighed,  nor  drooped,  nor  punned, 
nor  painted  ; 

Nor  wrote  a  book,  nor  traded  in  caresses, 

Nor  mude  remarks  on  other  people's  dresses. 


262  LIDIAN'SLOVE. 


These  were  his  raptures  ; — these  have  all  been  mine  ; 

I  could  have  worshipped  once  a  constellation, 
Filled  the  fine  air  with  habitants  divine, 

Found  in  the  sea  all  sorts  of  inspiration  ; 
Gone  out  at  noon-day  with  a  Nymph  to  dine, 

Held  with  an  Echo  charming  conversation, 
Commenced  intriguing  with  a  star,  and  kissed, 
Like  old  Ixion,  a  coquettish  mist. 

x. 

Now  all  is  over  !  passion  is  congealing, 
The  glory  of  the  soul  is  pale  and  dim ; 

I  gaze  all  night  upon  a  whitewashed  ceiling, 
And  get  no  glimpses  of  the  seraphim  ; 

Nothing  is  left  of  high  and  bright  revealing 
But  a  weak  longing  and  a  wayward  whim  ; 

And  when  Imagination  takes  the  air, 

She  never  wanders  beyond  Grosvenor  Square. 

XI. 

Not  that  I've  been  more  wicked  in  my  day 

Than  some,  perhaps,  who  call  themselves  my  bet 
ters  ; 

I  liked  to  prattle  better  than  to  pray, 

And  thought  that  freedom  was  as  sweet  as  fetters  ; 

Yet  when  my  lip  and  lute  are  turned  to  clay, 

The  honest  friend  who  prints  my  Life  and  Letters 

Will  find  few  stories  of  satanic  arts, 

Of  broken  promises  or  broken  hearts. 


LIDIAN'S    LOVE.  263 

XII. 

But  I  have  moved  too  long  in  cold  society, 
Where  it's  the  fashion  not  to  care  a  rush ; 

Where  girls  are  always  thinking  of  propriety, 

And    men    are    laughed    at    if    they    chance    to 
blush ; 

And  thus  I've  caught  the  sickness  of  sobriety, 
Forbidden  sighs  to  sound,  and  tears  to  gush ; 

Become  a  great  philosopher,  and  curled 

Around  my  heart  the  poisons  of  the  world. 

XIII. 

And  I  have  learned  at  last  the  hideous  trick 
Of  laughing  at  whate'er  is  great  or  holy ; 

At  horrid  tales  that  turn  a  soldier  sick, 
At  griefs  that  make  a  Cynic  melancholy ;  % 

At  Mr.  Lawless,  and  at  Mr.  Brie, 
At  Mr.  Milman,  and  at  Mr.  Croly  ; 

At  Talma  and  at  Young,  Macbeth  and  Cinna, — 

Even  at  you,  adorable  Corinna ! 

XIV. 

To  me  all  light  is  darkness ; — love  is  lust, 
Painting  soiled  canvas,  poetry  soiled  paper ; 

The  fairest  loveliness  a  pinch  of  dust, 
The  proudest  majesty  a  breath  of  vapor ; 

I  have  no  sympathy,  no  tear,  no  trust, 

!STo  morning  musing  and  no  midnight  taper 

For  daring  manhood,  or  for  dreaming  youth, 

Or  maiden  purity,  or  matron  truth. 


264 


XV. 

But  sweet  Sir  Lidtan  was  far  more  refined  ; 

He  shrank  betimes  from  life  and  life's  defiling ; 
His  step  was  on  the  earth,  but  oh  !  his  mind 

Made  for  itself  a  heaven !  the  fool's  reviling 
He  did  not  seek,  or  shun;  and  thus,  enshrined 

In   glad    and    innocent    thoughts,    he    went   on 

smiling, 

Alone  in  crowds,  unh earing  and  unheeding, 
Fond  of  the  fields,  and  very  fond  of  reading. 

XVI. 

When  lords  and  ladies  went  to  hunt  together, 

The  milkmaid,  as  he  passed,  kicked  down  her  pan ; 

When  witty  courtiers  criticised  the  weather, 
The  Countess  swore  he  was  a  learned  man  ; 

For  him  the  proudest  bowed  beneath  a  feather, 
For  him  the  coldest  blushed  behind  a  fan  ; 

And  titled  dames  gave  fetes  upon  the  water, 

To  introduce  him  to  their  angel  daughter. 

XVII. 

But  happy,  happy  Liclian  !  for  he  never 
Watched  the  caprices  of  a  pretty  face ; 

N"or  longed,  as  I  have  longed,  with  vain  endeavor 
To  tear  that  plaguy  wall  of  Mechlin  lace ; 

His  apathy  seemed  like  to  last  forever ; 
When  suddenly  an  incident  took  place 

Which  broke  the  talisman,  and  burst  the  bubble, 

And  gave  his  friends  considerable  trouble. 


LIDIAN'S    LOVE.  265 

XVIII. 

He  laid  a  bet  upon  his  falcon's  flight, 
Rode  home,  as  usually  he  did,  a  winner ; 

And  sent  a  dozen  pages  to  invite 

Ten  dozen  Barons  to  a  peacock  dinner  : 

They  carne,  they  ate,  they  talked  through  half  the 

night ; 
And  the  gay  crowd  grew  naturally  thinner, 

And  old  Sir  Guy,  a  story-teller  stanch, 

Began  the  story  of  the  Lady  Blanch. 

XIX. 

How  she  was  born  just  twenty  years  before ; 

And  how  her  father  was  a  Maltese  Knight, 
Sir  Raymond  styled,  and  skilled  in  knightly  lore, 

And  true  in  love,  and  terrible  in  fight ; 
And  how  her  mother,  Lady  Leonore, 

Had  perished  when  her  offspring  saw  the  light ; 
And  how,  because  there  was  no  other  heir, 
She  was  brought  up  with  most  uncommon  care. 


How  she  was  never,  when  she  was  a  child, 

Restrained  in  any  innocent  vagary ; 
And  how  she  grew  up  beautiful  and  wild, 

And  sang  as  sweetly  as  a  caged  canary ; 
And  how  all  artlessly  she  wept  and  smiled  ; 

And  how  she  danced  cotilons  like  a  fairy ; 
And  how  she  proved  what  metal  she  was  made  of, 
By  mounting  mares  her  groom  was  quite  afraid  of. 


LIDIANS    LOVE. 


XXI. 


How  Bishop  Bembo  mended  her  cacology, 
And  gave  her  all  the  graces  of  the  Attics  ; 

How  Father  Joseph  taught  her  physiology, 
And  Father  Jerome  taught  her  mathematics  ; 

And  how  she  picked  up  something  of  astrology 
From  two  white-haired,  long-bearded  Asiatics; 

And  how  she  had  a  genius  for  gastronomy, 

And  private  —  not  political  —  economy  ; 

XXII. 

And  how,  as  soon  as  she  dismissed  her  tutor, 
And  sat  at  tiltings  for  the  men's  inspection, 

She  was  besieged  by  many  an  anxious  suitor 
With  sighs  and  sonnets,  rhetoric  and  affection  ; 

And  how  Sir  Raymond  stood  completely  neuter  ; 
A.nd  how  she  gave  to  all  the  same  rejection, 

For  being  serious,  or  for  being  funny, 

For  want  of  genius,  or  for  want  of  money  ; 

XXIII. 

And  how  the  father  of  this  matchless  daughter, 
Who  for  long  years  had  been  a  great  dragooner, 

Found  Fate  as  fickle  as  old  Horace  thought  her, 
Which  many  soldiers  find  a  great  deal  sooner  ; 

How  he  was  grounded  in  some  sli  allow  water, 
And  taken  prisoner  by  a  pirate  schooner  ; 

And  how  the  Bey  of  Tunis  made  a  slave  of  him, 

And  swore  one  day  the  sea  should  be  the  grave  of 
him. 


LIDIAN'S    LOVE.  267 

XXIV. 

And  how  poor  Blanch,  when  that  sad  tale  was  told 
her, 

Speechless  and  senseless,  fell  upon  her  face ; 
And  how  'twas  all  two  knights  could  do  to  hold  her; 

And  how,  at  last,  she  took  her  writing-case, 
And  wrote,  before  she  was  a  minute  older, 

To  pray  that  she  might  fill  her  father's  place, 
Suggesting  that  a  maiden,  young  and  handsome, 
Was  more  than  worth  an  ugly  old  man's  ransom; 

xxv. 

And  how  the  Bey  behaved  himself  correctly, 
Knowing  such  beauty  was  not  for  a  Bey; 

And  how  he  shipped  her,  very  circumspectly, 
A  present  for  the  Sultan's  own  serai ; 

And  how  the  Sultan  fell  in  love  directly; 

And  how  he  begged  her,  one  fine  summer's  day, 

To  calm  her  passion,  and  assuage  her  grief, 

And  share  his  throne,  his  bed,  and  his  belief. 


And  how  she  told  him  his  proposals  shocked  her, 
Crescent  and  crown  heroically  spurning  ; 

And  how  she  reasoned  with  a  Turkish  Doctor ; 
And  how  the  Muftis  marvelled  at  her  learning ; 

And  how  the  Vizier  in  a  dungeon  locked  her ; 
And  how  three  Pachas  recommended  burning; 

And  how,  in  spite  of  all  their  inhumanity, 

She  kept  her  character,  and  Christianity. 


268  LIDIAN'S    LOVE. 

XXVII. 

How  she  escaped  by  preaching  to  her  jailer  ; 

How  Selim  tore  his  beard  and  wore  his  willow  ; 
How  she  put  on  the  trousers  of  a  sailor ; 

How  Zephyr  kindly  helped  her  o'er  the  billow ; 
How  all  her  friends  were  very  glad  to  hail  her  ; 

How  she  was  married  now  to  Don  Pedrillo ; 
And  how  she  showed,  by  every  look  and  action, 
She  loved  her  lord  and  master  to  distraction. 

XXVIII. 

Such  was  the  tale ; — a  tale  to  make  men  weep, 

Yet  half  the  guests  were  laughing  in  their  sleeve ; 

Some  fell  a  fighting,  others  fell  asleep, 

The  wild  took  bumpers,  and  the  wise  took  leave ; 

But  oh,  the  trance,  so  passionate  and  deep, 
In  which  Sir  Lidian  sate  ! — you  might  believe 

From  his  short  breathing,  and  his  gushing  tears, 

His  very  soul  was  listening,  npt  his  ears. 

XXIX. 

Oh,  what  a  treasure  all  such  listeners  are  ! 

He  longed  to   praise,  but   held  his   tongue  to 

wonder, 
Rapt  as  a  cornet  ere  his  maiden  war, 

Dumb  as  a  schoolboy  when  he  doubts  a  blunder, 
Pale  as  a  culprit  at  the  fatal  bar, 

Faint  as  a  lady  in  a  storm  of  thunder, 
And  wild  of  heart,  as  I  sometimes  have  been, 
When  you  were  singing,  silver-toned  Adine  ! — 


209 


XXX. 


Queen  of  enchanting  sounds,  at  whose  sweet  will 
The  spirit  sinks  and  rises,  glows  and  shivers, 

Your  voice  is  now  for  dearer  friends ;  but  still 
In  my  lone  heart  its  every  echo  quivers, 

A  viewless  melody  ! — no  purer  thrill 

Do  fairies  wake  from  their  own  groves  and  rivers, 

When  they  would  fling  on  minstrels' dreams  by  night 

Some  bounteous  vision  of  intense  delight. 

XXXI. 

You've  very  often  asked  me  for  a  song ; 

I've  very  often  promised  to  bestow  it ; 
But  when  my  admiration  is  most  strong, 

I'm  frequently  the  least  disposed  to  show  it ; 
However,  here  I  swear  that  I  have  long 

Sighed  to  be  styled  your  four-and-twentieth  poet, 
And  that  your  voice  is  richer  far  to  me, 
Than  a  fat  client's,  five  years  hence,  will  be. — 

XXXII. 

But  all  this  time  Sir  Guy  was  in  his  glory ; 

He  was  not  used  to  be  respected  so ; 
For  though  he  once  was  matchless  at  a  story, 

Age  chills  the  tongue,  and  checks  the  humor's 

flow ; 
His  talk  grew  tedious  as  his  hairs  grew  hoary; 

And  coxcombs  stopped  his — "  Fifty  years  ago" — • 
With  questions  of  their  hawking,  hunting,  baiting, 
Or — "Fair  Sir  Guy,  the  hypocras  is  waiting." 


270  LIDIAN'S    LOVE. 

XXXIII. 

Hence,  when  he  saw  in  what  a  mute  abstraction 
His  youthful  host  to  his  romance  attended, 

He  took  unusual  pains  with  every  fraction, 
Kept  his  denouement  artfully  suspended, 

Grew  quite  theatrical  in  tone  and  action, 
And  went  away  as  soon  as  he  had  ended, 

Supported  to  his  palfrey  by  a  vassal, 

Half  drunk  with  vanity,  and  half  with  wassail. 

xxxiv. 

The  guests  are  gone !  within  that  lofty  hall 
~No  boastful  baron  curls  his  wet  mustaches ; 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  are  withered  on  the  wall, 
The  logs  upon  the  earth  are  dust  and  ashes ; 

Where  late  some  lover  pledged  his  amorous  thrall, 
The  wine-cup  stands  inverted ;  and  the  flashes 

From  torch  and  taper  o'er  the  bright  floor  thrown 

Fall  faint  and  rare  ! — Sir  Lidian  is  alone. 

xxxv. 

Alone  ? — Oh  no  !  the  lady  and  her  grieving 
Too  truly,  deeply,  on  his  soul  are  wrought ; 

She  has  become  to  him  his  heart's  conceiving, 
The  very  essence  of  the  love  he  sought, 

A  present  hope,  a  passionate  believing, 
A  sleepless  vision,  an  embodied  thought ; 

Not  fancy  quite,  nor  quite  materiality, 

Too  clear  for  dream,  too  lovely  for  reality. 


LID  TAN'S    LOVE.  271 

XXXVI. 

Hark!  the  wind  whistles  through  the  grove  of  firs  ; — 
The  Lady  Blanch  beneath  their  shade  reposes : 

Lo  !  the  dark  tapestry  in  the  torch-light  stirs  ; — 
The  Lady  Blanch  beneath  the  curtain  dozes  : 

He  gazes  on  his  pictured  ancestors, 

And  even  there,  the  ancient  lips  and  noses 

Recall,  with  most  astonishing  activity, 

The  Lady  Blanch,  her  charms  and  her  captivity. 

xxxvn. 

And  now  she  looks  into  his  slumb'rous  eyes, 
And  now  she  trifles  with  his  flowing  tresses ; 

He  speaks  to  her, — anon  her  lip  replies ; 

He  kneels  to  her, — she  shrinks  from  his  caresses; 

Coining  all  eloquence  of  smiles  and  sighs, 

Wearing  by  turns  a  thousand  forms  and  dresses, 

Beauteous  in  all ! — alone  ? — in  bliss  or  pain, 

Sir  Lidian  ne'er  will  be  alone  again ! 

XXXVIII. 

Poor  youth !  the  chamber  now  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 
The  servants  all  had  gone  to  rest ;  but  still  he 

Wandered  in  silence  up  and  down  the  room, 
Forgetting  that  the  morning  would  be  chilly, 

Tossing  about  his  mantle  and  his  plume, 
And  looking  very  sad  and  very  silly ; 

At  last  he  snatched  his  harp,  and  stopped  his  tread, 

And  warbled  thus  before  he  went  to  bed : — 


r2  LIDIANSLOVE. 

"  O  Love !  O  beauteous  Love ! 

Thy  home  is  made  for  all  sweet  things, 
A  dwelling  for  thine  own  soft  dove 

And  souls  as  spotless  as  her  wings ; 

There  summer  ceases  never : 
The  trees  are  rich  with  luscious  fruits, 

The  bowers  are  full  of  joyous  throngs, 
And  gales  that  come  from  Heaven's  OAVH  lutes 

And  rivulets  whose  streams  are  songs 
Go  murmuring  on  forever! 


"  O  Love  !  O  wretched  Love ! 

Thy  home  is  made  for  bitter  care ; 
And  sounds  are  in  thy  myrtle  grove 

Of  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Of  feigning  and  forsaking  : 

Thy  banquet  is  the  doubt  and  fear 

That  come,  we  know  not  whence  or  why, 
The  smile  that  hardly  masks  a  tear, 

The  laughter  that  is  half  a  sigh, 

The  heart  that  jests  in  breaking! 


"  O  Love !  O  faith-less  Love  ! 

Thy  home  is  like  the  roving  star 
Which  seems  so  fair,  so  far  above 

The  world  where  woes  and  sorrows  are ; 
But  could  we  wander  thither, 


LIUIAN    S     LOVE. 

There's  nothing  but  another  earth, 
As  dark  and  restless  as  our  own, 
Where  misery  is  child  of  mirth. 
And  every  heart  is  born  to  groan, 
And  every  flower  to  wither!" 
(1820.) 

12* 


MY  FIRST  FOLLY. 

STANZAS    WRITTEN   AT   MIDNIGHT. 

Pretty  coquette  !  the  ceaseless  play 

Of  thine  unstudied  wit, 
And  thy  dark  eye's  remembered  ray, 

By  buoyant  fancy  lit, 
And  thy  young  forehead's  clear  expanse, 
Where  the  locks  slept  as  through  the  dance, 

Dreamlike,  I  saw  thee  flit, — 
Are  far  too  warm,  and  far  too  fair 
To  mix  with  aught  of  earthly  care, 
But  the  vision  shall  come  when  my  day  is  done, 
A  frail,  and  a  fair,  and  a  fleeting  one ! 

And  if  the  many  boldly  gaze 

On  that  bright  brow  of  thine, 
And  if  thine  eye's  undying  rays 

On  countless  coxcombs  shine, 
And  if  thy  wit  flings  out  its  mirth, 
Which  echoes  more  of  air  than  earth, 

For  other  ears  than  mine, — 
I  heed  not  this,  ye  are  fickle  things, 
And  I  like  your  very  wanderings ; 
I  gaze,  and  if  thousand's  share  the  bliss, 
Pretty  capricious !  I  heecl  not  this. 


MY      FIRST     FOLLY.  2  7  5 

In  sooth  I  am  a  wayward  youth, 

As  fickle  as  the  sea, 
And  very  apt  to  speak  the  truth, 

Unpleasing  though  it  be ; 
I  am  no  lover,  yet  as  long- 
As  I  have  heart  for  jest  or  song, 

An  image,  sweet,  of  thee, 
Locked  in  my  heart's  remotest  treasures, 
Shall  ever  be  one  of  its  hoarded  pleasiii  es  ; 
This  from  the  scoffer  thou  has  won, 
And  more  than  this  he  Drives  to  none. 


o 


(DECEMBER  20,  1821.) 


A  SHOOTING  STAR. 

"  An  ignis  fatuus  gleam  of  love." — Btjron. 

A  SHOOTING  Star ! — the  dim  blue  night 

Gleamed  where  the  wanderer  went, 
For  it  flung  a  stream  of  gushing  light 

Around  its  bright  ascent. 
I  saw  it  fade ! — in  cold  and  cloud 

The  young  light  fleeted  by, 
And  the  shrill  night-wind  whistled  loud, 
As  darkness  spread  her  solemn  shroud 

Over  the  midnight  sky. 

Thou  Maiden  of  the  secret  spell, 
Star  of  the  soul,  farewell,  farewell ! 
E'en  such  has  been  thy  lovely  light, 
So  calmly  keen,  so  coldly  bright ; 
A  meteor,  seen  and  worshipped  only 
To  leave  a  lonely  heart  more  lonely. 
The  Star  hath  set ! — the  spell  is  broken  ; 
And  thou  hast  left  behind  no  token — 
No  token,  lovely  one,  to  me, 
Of  what  thou  art,  or  art  to  be ; 
Except  one  dear  and  cherished  thought 
In  Memory's  sunless  caverns  wrought, 


A     SHOOTING     STAtt.  277 

One  moonlight  vision,  one  sweet  shade, 
Quick  to  appear,  and  slow  to  fade, 
A  warm  and  silent  recollection, 
The  fancy's  dream,  the  heart's  affection. 

Bright  be  thy  lot  in  other  years  ! — 

Fill  high  the  cnp  of  wine  ; 
In  all  the  pain  of  hopes  and  fears 
I  will  not  bathe  with  any  tears 

That  laughing  love  of  thine. 
Yet  often  in  my  waking  slumbers 
Thy  voice  shall  speak  its  magic  numbers, 
And  I  shall  think  on  that  dark  brow 
On  which  my  fancy  gazes  now, 
And  sit  in  revery  lone  and  long 
To  muse  on  that  Italian  song. 

And  thou,  perhaps,  in  happier  times, 
And  fairer  scenes,  and  warmer  climes, 
Wilt  think  of  one  who  would  not  dim 
With  aught  of  care  that  wit  and  whim, — 
Of  one  who  oft,  in  other  years, 

Fills  high  the  cup  of  wine, 
Because,  in  all  his  hopes  and  fears, 
He  will  not  bathe  with  any  tears 

That  laughing  love  of  thine  ! 
(MARCH  15,  1822.) 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    FOR    A    FRIEND. 

BLISS  to  those  that  love  thee  ! 

Bliss  to  those  thou  lovest ! 
May  Heaven  smile  above  thee 

Wheresoe'er  thou  rovest ! 
May  no  storm  come  nigh  thee 

On  the  tumbling  ocean ! 
May  the  green  wave  ripple  by  thee 

With  a  lulling  motion ! 

The  wild  voice  of  thy  laughter 

Hath  fleeted  from  before  me  ! 
But  an  echo  lingers  after, 

Flinging  magic  o'er  me  ! 
Thy  fair  smile  is  not  beaming 

Its  young  mirth  around  me, 
But  I  dote  upon  it,  dreaming, 

When  the  spell  hath  bound  me. 

I  cannot  see  or  hear  thee, 

Dearest  of  Earth's  daughters  ; 

But  my  soul  is  ever  near  thee, 
On  the  quiet  waters. 


STANZAS. 

Bliss  to  those  that  love  thee ! 

Bliss  to  those  thou  lovest ! 
And  may  Heaven  smile  above  thee 

Wheresoe'er  thou  rovest! 
(1822.) 


L'lNCONNUE. 

MA.NY  a  beaming  brow  I've  known, 

And  many  a  dazzling  eye, 
And  I've  listened  to  many  a  melting  tone 

In  magic  fleeting  by ; 
And  mine  was  never  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  yet  my  heart  hath  given  to  none 

The  tribute  of  a  sigh ; 
For  Fancy's  wild  and  witching  mirth 
Was  dearer  than  aught  I  found  on  earth, 
And  the  fairest  forms  I  ever  knew 
Were  far  less  fair  than — L'liiconnue ! 

Many  an  eye  that  once  was  bright 

Is  dark  to-day  in  gloom ; 
Many  a  voice  that  once  was  light 

Is  silent  in  the  tomb ; 
Many  a  flower  that  once  was  dight 
In  Beauty's  most  entrancing  might 

Hath  faded  in  its  bloom ; 
But  she  is  still  as  fair  and  gay 
As  if  she  had  sprung  to  life  to-day ; 
A  ceaseless  tone  and  a  deathless  hue 
Wild  Fancy  hath  given  to— L'Inconnue. 


LINGO  N  N  U  E  . 


Many  an  eye  of  piercing  jet 

Hath  only  gleamed  to  grieve  me ; 
Many  a  fairy  form  I've  met, 

But  none  have  wept  to  leave  me ; 
When  all  forsake  and  all  forget, 
One  pleasant  dream  shall  haunt  me  yet, 

One  hope  shall  not  deceive  me ; 
For  oh  !  when  all  beside  is  past, 
Fancy  is  found  our  friend  at  last, 
And  the  faith  is  firm  and  the  love  is  true 
Which  are  vowed  by  the  lips  of — L'Inconnue ! 


PEACE  BE  THINE. 

WHEN  Sorrow  moves  with  silent  tread 
*•    Around  some  mortal's  buried  dust, 
And  muses  on  the  mouldering  dead 

Who  sleep  beneath  their  crumbling  bust, 
Though  all  unheard  and  all  unknown 
The  name  on  that  sepulchral  stone, 
She  looks  on  its  recording  line, 
And  whispers  kindly,  "  Peace  be  thine  !" 

O  Lady  !  me  thou  knowest  not, 

And  what  I  am,  or  am  to  be ; 
The  pain  and  pleasure  of  my  lot 

Are  naught,  and  must  be  naught,  to  thee  ; 
Thou  seest  not  my  hopes  and  fears  ; 
Yet  thou  perhaps,  in  other  years, 

Wilt  look  on  this  recording  line, 

And  whisper  kindly,  "  Peace  be  thine !" 


TO  — 
I. 


WE  met  but  in  one  giddy  dance, 

Good-night  joined  hands  with  greeting; 
And  twenty  thousand  things  may  chance 

Before  our  second  meeting : 
For  oh !  I  have  been  often  told 

That  all  the  world  grows  older, 
And  hearts  and  hopes  to-day  so  cold, 

To-morrow  must  be  colder. 

II. 

If  I  have  never  touched  the  string 

Beneath  your  chamber,  dear  one, 
And  never  said  one  civil  thing 

When  you  were  by  to  hear  one, — 
If  I  have  made  no  rhymes  about 

Those  looks  which  conquer  Stoics, 
And  heard  those  angel  tones,  without 

One  fit  of  fair  heroics, — 

in. 

Yet  do  not,  though  the  world's  cold  school 
Some  bitter  truths  has  taught  me, 


281  TO    -         — . 

Oh,  do  not  deem  me  quite  the  fool 

Which  wiser  friends  have  thought  me ! 

There  is  one  charm  I  still  could  feel, 
If  no  one  laughed  at  feeling ; 

One  dream  my  lute  could  still  reveal, — 
If  it  were  worth  revealing. 

IV. 

But  Folly  little  cares  what  name 

Of  friend  or  foe  she  handles, 
When  merriment  directs  the  game, 

And  midnight  dims  the  candles  ; 
I  know  that  Folly's  breath  is  weak 

And  would  not  stir  a  feather ; 
But  yet  I  would  not  have  her  speak 

Your  name  and  mine  together. 

v. 

Oh  no  !  this  life  is  dark  and  bright, 

Half  rapture  and  half  sorrow ; 
My  heart  is  very  full  to-night, 

My  cup  shall  be  to-morrow  : 
But  they  shall  never  know  from  me, 

On  any  one  condition, 
Whose  health  made  bright  my  Burgundy, 

Whose  beauty  was  my  vision  ! 


TO . 

II. 

i. 

As  o'er  the  deep  the  seaman  roves 

With  cloud  and  storm  above  him, 
Far,  far  from  all  the  smiles  he  loves, 

And  nil  the  hearts  that  love  him, 
'Tis  sweet  to  find  some  friendly  mast 

O'er  that  same  ocean  sailing, 
And  listen  in  the  hollow  blast 

To  hear  the  pilot's  hailing. 

ii. 

On  rolls  the  sea !  and  brief  the  bliss, 

And  farewell  follows  greeting ; 
On  rolls  the  sea !  one  hour  is  his 

For  parting  and  for  meeting ; 
And  who  shall  tell,  on  sea  or  shore, 

In  sorrow  or  in  laughter, 
If  he  shall  see  that  vessel  more, 

Or  hear  that  voice  hereafter  ? 

in. 

And  thus,  as  on  through  shine  and  shoAver 
My  fickle  shallop  dances, 


286  TO    . 

And  trembles  at  all  storms  that  lower, 
And  courts  all  summer  'glances, 

'Tis  very  sweet,  when  thoughts  oppress 
And  follies  fail  to  cheer  me, 

To  find  some  looks  of  loveliness, 
Some  tones  of  kindness,  near  me. 

IV. 

And  yet  I  feel,  while  hearts  are  gay, 

And  smiles  are  bright  around  me, 
That  those  who  greet  me  on  my  way 

Must  leave  me  as  they  found  me, 
To  rove  again,  as  erst  I  roved, 

Through  winter  and  rough  weather, 
And  think  of  all  the  friends  I  loved, 

But  loved  and  lost  together  : 

v. 

And  scenes  and  smiles,  so  pure  and  glad, 

Are  found  and  worshipped  only 
To  make  our  sadness  seem  more  sad, 

Our  loneliness  more  lonely  ; — 
It  matters  not !  a  pleasant  dream 

At  best  can  be  but  dreaming ; 
And  if  the  true  may  never  beam, 

Oh !  who  would  slight  the  seeming? 

VI. 

And  o'er  the  world  my  foot  may  roam, 
Through  foreign  griefs  and  pleasures, 


TO .  287 

And  other  climes  may  be  my  home, 

And  other  hearts  my  treasures  ; 
But  in  the  mist  of  memory 

Shall  time  arid  space  be  cheated, 
And  those  kind  looks  revived  shall  be, 

And  those  soft  tones  repeated ! 

VII. 

Believe, — if  e'er  this  rhyme  recall 

One  thought  of  him  who  frames  it, — 
Believe  him  one  who  brings  his  all 

Where  Love  or  Friendship  claims  it ; 
Though  cold  the  surface  of  his  heart, 

Tiiere's  warmth  beneath  the  embers  ; 
For  all  it  hopes,  it  would  not  part 

With  aught  that  it  remembers  ! 


TO 


III. 

"Bientot  je  vis  rassembler  autour  de  moi  tons  les  objets  qui 
m'avoient  donne  de  1' emotion  dans  ma  jeunesse." — Rousseau. 


O  LADY,  when  I  mutely  gaze 

On  eyes,  whose  chastened  splendor 
Forbids  the  flatterer's  wanton  praise, 

And  makes  the  Cynic  tender, 
Believe  not  that  my  gaze  that  night 

Has  nothing,  Lady,  in  it, 
Beyond  one  vision  of  delight, 

The  rapture  of  one  minute. 

ii. 

And,  Lady,  when  my  ear  has  heard 

That  voice,  whose  natural  gladness 
Has  caught  from  Heaven,  like  some  sweet  bird, 

Its  tone  of  sainted  sadness, 
Believe  not  that  those  uttered  words 

In  the  far  winds  have  fleeted, 
Like  echoes  from  my  own  poor  chords, 

Uncherished,  unrepeated. 


TO    .  289 

in. 

Within  the  soul,  where  Memory  shrouds 

Whate'er  has  bloomed  and  faded, 
And  consecrates  the  very  clouds 

By  which  her  cells  are  shaded, 
Re-echoed  from  unnoticed  strings, 

Traced  by  an  unseen  finger, 
Amid  all  holy  thoughts  and  things 

Those  smiles,  those  words,  will  linger ! 

IV. 

The  present  is  a  narrow  cave 

With  gloomy  walls  to  bound  it ; 
The  future  is  a  pathless  wave 

With  darkness  all  around  it ; 
But  I  did  fill  the  shadowy  past, 

As  Life  was  loitering  through  it, 
With  many  a  shape,  which  beams  at  last 

As  bright  as  Boyhood  knew  it. 

v. 

Those  shapes  are  viewless  to  the  eye, 

But  still  the  heart  enjoys  them ; 
And  Fancy  can  their  hues  supply 

As  fast  as  Time  destroys  them ; 
Until  the  past,  with  all  its  dreams 

Of  love,  and  light,  and  glory, 
Is  fairer  than  the  future  seems 

In  fabling  Mecca's  story. 
13 


290  TO    . 

VI. 

And  though  I  weep,  as  I  repair 

Some  bitter  recollection 
Of  bootless  labor,  baffled  prayer, 

Scorned  passion,  crashed  affection, 
Yet  I  would  never  give  away 

One  tear  of  such  rare  sorrow 
For  all  I  have  of  bliss  to-day, 

Or  all  I  hope  to-morrow. 

VII. 

Lady,  if  I  would  e'er  renew, 

When  Care's  cold  night  has  bound  me, 
The  brightest  morn  that  ever  threw 

Its  youthful  radiance  round  me, 
Or  deck  with  bloom,  when  Hope  is  bare, 

And  Pleasure's  wreaths  are  serest, 
Of  all  dead  flowers,  so  dear  and  fair, 

The  fairest,  and  the  dearest, — 

VIII. 

If,  when  my  lute  in  other  days 

Is  silent  or  unheeded, 
I  would  revive  one  voice,  whose  praise 

Was  all  the  fame  it  needed,— 
If,  when  false  Friendship  has  betrayed 

Or  fickle  Love  deceived  me, 
My  heart  would  cling  to  one  soft  shade 

Which  could  not  so  have  grieved  me,- 


TO    .  291 


In  bower  or  banquet,  heath  or  hill, 

The  form  I  seek  will  glisten  ; 
Again  the  liquid  voice  will  thrill, 

The  fair  face  bend  to  listen : 
But  whatsoe'er  the  hour  or  place, 

No  bribe  or  prayer  shall  win  me 
To  say  whose  voice,  or  form,  or  face, 

That  spell  awoke  within  me ! 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

OH  yes  !  these  lips  are  very  fair, 

Half  lifted  to  the  sky, 
As  if  they  breathed  an  angel's  prayer 

Mixed  with  a  mortal's  sigh ; 
But  theirs  is  not  the  song  that  flings 
O'er  evening's  still  imaginings 

Its  cherished  witchery ; 
No,  these  are  not  the  lips  whose  tone 
Sad  Memory  has  made  her  own. 

And  these  long  curls  of  dazzling  brown 

In  many  a  fairy  wreath 
Float  brightly,  beautifully,  down 

Upon  the  brow  beneath  ; 
But  these  are  not  the  locks  of  jet 
For  which  I  sought  the  violet 

On  that  remembered  heath ; 
No,  these  are  not  the  locks  that  gleam 
Around  me  in  my  moonlight  dream. 

And  these  blue  eyes — a  very  saint 
Might  envy  their  pure  rays — 

Are  such  as  limners  learn  to  paint, 
And  poets  long  to  praise ; 


THE     PORTRAIT. 

But  theirs  is  not  the  speaking  glance 
On  which,  in  all  its  young  romance, 

My  spirit  loves  to  gaze  ; 
No,  these  are  not  the  eyes  that  shine, 
Like  never-setting  stars,  on  mine. 

By  those  sweet  songs  I  hear  to-night, 
Those  black  locks  on  the  brow, 

And  those  dark  eyes,  whose  living  light- 
Is  beaming  o'er  me  now, 

I  worship  naught  but  what  them  art ! 

Let  all  that  was— decay — depart, 
I  care  not  when  or  how ; 

And  fairer  far  these  hues  may  be, — 

They  seem  not  half  so  fair  to  me! 


(1825.) 


TO 


STILL  is  the  earth,  and  still  the  sky ; 

The  midnight  moon  is  fleeting  by ; 

And  all  the  world  is  wrapt  in  sleep, 

But  the  hearts  that  love,  and  the  eyes  that  weep. 

n. 

And  now  is  the  time  to  kiss  the  flowers 
Which  shun  the  sunbeam's  busy  hours ; 
For  the  book  is  shut,  and  the  mind  is  free 
To  gaze  on  them,  and  to  think  of  thee. 

in. 

Withered  they  are  and  pale  in  sooth  ; 
So  are  the  radiant  hopes  of  youth ; 
But  Love  can  give  with  a  single  breath 
Bloom  to  languor,  and  life  to  death. 

IV. 

Though  I  must  greet  thee  with  a  tone 
As  calm  to-morrow  as  thine  own, 
Oh !  Fancy's  vision,  Passion's  vow, 
May  be  told  in  stillness  and  darknes;  no\v  ! 


TO    .  295 


For  the  veil  from  the  soul  is  rent  away 
Which  it  wore  in  the  glare  of  gaudy  day ; 
And  more,  much  more,  the  heart  may  feel 
Than  the  pen  may  write  or  the  lip  reveal. 


VI. 


Why  can  I  not  forego — forget 

That  ever  I  loved  thee — that  ever  we  met  ? 

There  is  not  a  single  link  or  sign 

To  blend  my  lot  in  the  world  with  thine ; 


VII. 


I  knoxv  not  the  scenes  where  thou  hast  roved, 
I  see  not  the  faces  which  thou  hast  loved, — 
Thou  art  to  me  as  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  boat  that  sails  on  a  distant  stream. 


VIII. 


Thou  smilest !  I  am  glad  the  while, 

But  I  share  not  the  joy  that  bids  thee  smile ; 

Thou  grievest !  when  thy  grief  is  deepest, 

I  weep,  but  I  know  not  for  whom  thou  weepest. 


IX. 


I  would  change  life's  spring  for  his  roughest  weather 
If  we  might  bear  the  storm  together ; 
And  give  my  hopes  for  half  thy  fears, 
And  sell  my  s miles  for  half  thy  tears. 


X. 

d>ivc  me  on<-  f'ommon  l/lii-*  or  wo«-v 
OM<;  rofnrnon  fn< n«j,  ore;  c.ommod  io<', 
On  l}i<-  «';i,ill»  l/<-low,7  o»'  U»<;  rlon<lw  al/o 


ll,  MI;I  y  not    (><•  ;    l»ul,  yd,      l»nl    y<-l, 
O  <lf<  tn  nol.   I  r;m  !•'<•,»•  Jor//H   ! 
I' or  CoM<Jn<'HH  t'ljr.li  u«  /nine  Ni<p|»li<;M 
Tli^  xnii.'ilJi wM<'Ji  \''n\<-  <l<'fii<^  : 


An<l  >ill  »riy  r<'''liiif/!!,  wll  Iliou  kfiow 
<io  willi  lIxM-    |>!i<Jyr  vvlM-n-Vr  UIOH 
An'l  »»iy   wfiywJiKJ  Npir 
!(,:<,  liri'.l   ,'ih'J   l;i>',l.  idohilt  y  ! 


I. 

IN         II"    ll       I     (line     MM     Mil      ,      U    lle||     e\el     ,       lie    II    I      I         ll     -III. 

Ami    ^I'OOlillJ^M    Mound    limrc    \\clrniuc,  ;iin|    |;iroM  NMlilo 
ni-H.    !»ri,"li!-, 

O    li.'\\     WCUI'ily        lin\\'    NVtMU'lly   m\    Mjiiril     \VMII(|(M'H   l»!l('k 
AiiKiii"    MM-   l;i.|c(|    in\M    Miii    lie  mi    iMi-nmry'M    MINI.-. I 


II. 

rlo\oil   «ni.  ,   if  MII^'UIMll    WOlllll    I  ill    \\  li.  i.     I  ill    it     in  i\  , 
l       ..IM.\\     .  .Hil.l     |ir     \\.ni     l»\      --ill        In    I.  nl.  i      |n.-'     I'nl* 


A     li|>     \\llirli     \\..nl,  |     |)i<       (ill      in-  1     mule,    In     in.il..-     ||iy 

mil     le    ll'CC, 
All    e\.       \\llicll     \\.Hll.l     IlirfM'!      |()    \\.ll.e,    |o    |l|l|     Ml\     III.  Hit 

ill",  nlnm-, 
A  IxMirl  NvhoMo  \ory  Hlriiif,M  \vmild  l>ro!i.K,  In  niral  0110 

|.in    •    iVnlll    Mini. 

!  :i* 


TO 


III. 

If  this  be  all  too  wild  a  wish,  it  were  a  humbler  prayer 
That  I   might    sit  beside   thy  couch,   watching   and 

weeping  there ; 
Alas,    that   grief    should   sever   the   hearts    it   most 

endears, — 
That  friends  who  have   been  joined   in    smiles,  are 

parted  in  their  tears, — 
That  when  there's  danger  in  the  path,  or  poison  in  the 

bowl, 
Unloving  hands  must  minister,  unloving  lips  console  ! 

IV. 

Yet  in  the  twilight  hour,  when  all  our  hopes  seem 

true, 
And  Fancy's  wild  imaginings  take  living  form  and 

hue, 

I  linger,  and  thou  chidest  not,  beside  thy  lonely  bed, 
And  do  thy  biddings,  dearest,  with  slow  and  noiseless 

tread, 
And  tremble  all  the  while  at  the  feeblest  wind  that 

blows, 
As  if  indeed  its  idle  breath  were  breaking  thy  repose. 

v. 

To  kiss  thine  eyelids,  when  they  droop  with  heaviness 

and  pain, 
To  pour  sad  tears  upon  thy  hand,  the  heart's  most 

precious  r;iin, 


TO .  299 

To   mark  the  changing  color   as   it  flits  across   thy 

cheek, 

To  feel  thy  very  wishes  ere  the  feverish  lip  can  speak, 
To  listen  for  the  weakest  word,  watch  for  the  lightest 

token, 
Oh  bliss,  that  such  a  dream  should  be !  oh  pain,  that  it 

is  broken ! 

VI. 

Farewell,  my  best  beloved ;   beloved,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  may  not  mourn  where  thou  dost  weep,  nor  be  where 

thou  dost  dwell ; 

But  when  the  friend  I  trusted  all  coldly  turns  away, 
When  the  warmest  feelings  wither,  and  the  dearest 

hopes  decay, 
To  thee — to  thee — thou  knowest,  whate'er  my  lot  may 

be, 
For  comfort  and  for  happiness,  my  spirit  turns  to  thee. 


THP:  PARTING. 


"  Alia  prigione  antica 
Quell'  augellin  ritorna 
Ancorche  mano  arnica 

frli  ubbia  disciolto  il  pie.'' 

Metastasio. 


FAREWELL  ;-  -I  will  not  now 

The  wasted  theme  renew  ; 
No  cloud  upon  my  cheek  or  brow 

Shall  wake  one  pang  for  you ; 
But  here,  unseen,  unheard, 

Ere  evening's  shadows  fly, 
I  will  but  say  that  one  weak  word, 

And  pass  unwelcomed  by. 

IT. 

Farewell ; — but  it  is  strange, 

As  round  your  towers  I  roam, 
To  think  how  desolate  a  change 

Has  come  o'er  heart  and  home ; 
Where  stranger  minstrels  throng, 

Where  harsher  harps  are  cherished, 
The  very  memory  of  my  song 

Is,  like  its  echo,  perished. 


T  II  E      PAR  T  I  N  (J  . 
III. 

The  bird  your  gold  has  brought 

From  its  own  orient  bowers, 
Where  every  wandering  wind  is  fraught 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  flowers, 
Will  never  murmur  more 

A  note  so  clear  and  high 
As  that  which  he  was  wont  to  pour 

Beneath  his  native  sky. 

IV. 

Yet  'twere  a  cruel  thing, 

If  Pity's  tears  and  sighs 
Could  give  the  breezes  to  his  wing, 

The  daylight  to  his  eyes  ; 
His  vision  is  the  night, 

His  home  the  prison,  now, 
He  could  not  look  upon  the  light, 

Nor  sleep  upon  the  bough. 


Lady,  when  first  your  mirth 

Flung  magic  o'er  my  way, 
Mine  was  the  gayest  soul  on  earth 

When  all  the  earth  was  gay ; 
My  songs  were  full  of  joy,— 

You  might  have  let  them  flow  ; 
My  heart  was  every  woman's  toy, — 

You  might  have  left  it  so  ! 


302  TFIE     PARTING 


But  now  to  send  me  back 

To  faded  hopes  and  fears, 
To  bid  me  seek  again  the  track 

My  foot  has  left  for  years, 
To  cancel  what  must  be, 

To  alter  what  has  been,  — 
Ah  !  this  indeed  is  mockery 

Fit  for  a  Fairy  Queen  ! 

VII. 

The  lip  that  was  so  gay 

More  dark  and  still  hath  grown; 
The  listless  lute  of  yesterday 

Hath  learned  a  sadder  tone  ; 
And  uttered  is  the  thought, 

And  written  is  the  vow  ;  — 
You  might  have  left  this  charm  unwrought, 

You  must  not  rend  it  now  ! 

VIII. 

When  first  upon  my  lance 

I  saw  the  fair  sun  shine, 
I  courted  not  that  fairer  glance,  — 

And  yet  it  turned  to  mine  ; 
When  music's  rich  delight 

From  lips  so  lovely  came, 
I  looked  not  on  those  lips  that  night,  — 

And  yet  they  breathed  my  name! 


THE     PARTING.  30  Pi 

IX. 

When  our  last  words  were  broken 

By  passion's  bitter  tears, 
I  asked  not  the  recording  token 

Which  I  must  love  for  years  ; 
And  when  between  us  lay 

Long  tracks  of  sand  and  sea, 
The  carrier  pigeon  went  his  way 

Unbegged,  unbought,  by  me. 

x. 

Farewell! — when  I  was  bound 

In  every  Beauty's  thrall, 
I  could  have  lightly  whispered  round 

That  little  word  to  all ; 
And  now  that  I  am  cold, 

And  deemed  the  slave  of  none, 
I  marvel  how  my  lips  have  told 

That  little  word  to  one. 


Farewell ! — since  bliss  so  rare 

Hath  beamed  but  to  betray, 
It  will  be  long  ere  I  shall  wear 

The  smile  I  wore  to-day ; 
And  since  I  weep  not  here 

To  call  you  false  and  vain, 
I  think  I  shall  not  shed  one  tear 

For  nil  this  world  again  ! 


THE  LAST. 

Tlavva'Tarov  STJ,  K'OUTTOT'  av0i?  vcrrepov. 

SOPH.  Ay  ax. 

1. 

IT  is  the  lute,  the  same  poor  lute ; — 

Why  do  you  turn  away  ? 
To-morrow  let  its  chords  be  mute, 

But  they  must  sound  to-day. 
The  bark  is  manned,  the  seamen  throng 

Around  the  creaking  mast  : 
Lady,  you  heard  my  first  love  song, — 
Hear  now  my  last ! 

n. 

Sigh  not ! — I  knew  the  star  must  set, 

I  knew  the  rose  must  fade  ; 
And  if  I  never  can  forget, 

I  never  will  upbraid ; 
I  would  not  have  you  aught  but  glad, 

TVliere'er  my  lot  is  cast ; 
And  if  my  sad  words  make  you  sad, 
They  are  the  last ! 


THE      LAST.  305 

III. 

No  more,  no  more,  oh !  never  more 

Will  look  or  tone  of  mine 
Bring  clouds  that  ivory  forehead  o'er, 

Or  dim  that  dark  eye's  shine ; 
Look  out,  dear  Lady,  from  your  tower ; 

The  wave  rolls  deep  and  vast : 
Oh,  would  to  God  this  bitter  hour 
Might  be  my  last ! 


I  think  that  you  will  love  me  still, 
Though  far  our  fates  may  be  ; 

And  that  your  heart  will  fondly  thrill 
When  strangers  ask  of  me ; 

My  praise  will  ba  your  proudest  theme 
When  these  dark  days  are  past : 

If  this  be  all  an  idle  dream, 
It  is  my  last ! 


And  now  let  one  kind  look  be  mine, 

And  clasp  this  slender  chain ; 
Fill  up  once  more  the  cup  of  wine, 

Put  on  my  ring  again  ; 
And  wreathe  this  wreath  around  your  head, 

(Alas,  it  withers  fast !) 
And  whisper,  when  its  flowers  are  dead, 
It  was  the  last ! 


THE     LAST. 
VI. 

Thus  from  your  presence  forth  I  go, 

A  lost  and  lonely  man ; 
Reckless  alike  of  weal  or  woe, 

Heaven's  benison  or  ban : 
He  who  has  known  the  tempest's  worst 

May  bare  him  to  the  blast ; 
Blaine  not  these  tears ;  they  are  the  first, - 
Are  they  the  last? 

(APRIL  2,  1829.) 


A  FAREWELL. 


AtTroOcra  5'  EupcoTrrjs  Tre'Sov, 
"HVet.poi'  T^ei?  'Acrt'6'.    ap  v^lv  So/eel 
6  Ttov  0ea>i>  rvpavvos  «is  ra  Trai^'  6/u.u? 
/Si'aios  eli^ai  ; 

Prom.  V-inct. 


THEY  told  me  thou  wilt  pass  again 

Across  the  echoing  wave  ; 
And,  though  thou  canst  not  break  the  chain, 

Thou  wilt  forget  the  slave. 
Farewell,  farewell! — thou  wilt  not  know 
My  hopes  or  fears,  my  weal  or  woe, 

My  home — perhaps  my  grave  ! 
Nor  think  nor  dream  of  the  sad  heart 
Whose  only  thought  and  dream  thou  art. 

The  goblet  went  untasted  by 

Which  other  lips  caressed  ; 
And  joyless  seemed  the  revelry, 

And  impotent  the  jest : 
And  why  ?  for  it  was  very  long 
Since  thou  didst  prize  my  love  or  song, 

My  lot  was  all  unblest : 
I  cannot  now  be  more  forlorn, 
Nor  bear  aught  that  I  have  not  borne. 


A     FAREWELL. 

We  might  not  meet ;  for  me  no  more 

Arose  that  melting  tone; 
The  eyes  which  colder  crowds  adore 

Were  veiled  to  me  alone : 
The  coxcomb's  prate,  the  ruffian's  lies, 
The  censures  of  the  sternly  wise, 

Between  our  hearts  were  thrown  ; 
Deeper  and  wider  barriers  far, 
Than  any  waves  or  deserts  are. 

But  it  was  something  still  to  know 
Thy  dawn  and  dusk  were  mine, 

And  that  we  felt  the  same  breeze  blow, 
And  saw  the  same  star  shine  ; 

And  still  the  shadowy  hope  was  rife 

That  once  in  this  waste  weary  life 
My  path  might  cross  with  thine, 

And  one  brief  gleam  of  beauty  bless 

My  spirit's  utter  loneliness. 

And  oft  in  crowds  I  might  rejoice 

To  hear  thy  uttered  name, 
Though  haply  from  an  unknown  voice 

The  welcome  echo  came  : 
How  coldly  would  I  shape  reply, 
With  lingering  lip,  and  listless  eye, 

That  none  might  doubt  or  blame, 
Or  guess  that  idle  theme  could  be 
A  mine  of  after-thought  to  me. 


A      FAREWELL.  309 

Oh  ne'er  again ! — thou  wilt  abide 

Where  brighter  skies  are  found, 
One  whom  thou  lovest  by  thy  side, 

Many  who  love  thee  round ; 
And  those  sweet  fairies,  with  their  wiles 
Of  mimic  frowns  and  happy  smiles, 

Around  thy  steps  will  bound  : 
I  would  not  cloud  such  scene  and  lot 
For  all  my  aching  breast  hath  not. 

Yet,  if  thou  wilt  remember  one 

Who  never  can  forget, 
Whose  lonely  life  is  not  so  lone 

As  if  we  had  not  met, 
Believe  that  in  the  frosty  sky 
Whereon  is  writ  his  destiny 

Thy  light  is  lingering  yet, 
A  star  before  the  darkened  soul, 
To  guide,  and  gladden,  and  control. 

Be  mine  the  talk  of  men,  though  thou 

Wilt  never  hear  my  praise ; 
Be  mine  the  wreath,  though  for  my  brow 

Thou  wilt  not  twine  the  bays ; 
Be  mine  ambition's  proudest  scope, 
Though  fewer  smiles  than  were  my  hope 

Will  meet  my  longing  gaze, 
Though  in  my  triumph's  sunniest  thrill 
One  welcome  will  be  wanting1  still. 


310  A     FARE  WELL. 

Perchance,  when  long,  long  years  are  o'er- 

I  care  not  how  they  flow — 
Some  note  of  me  to  that  far  shore 

Across  the  deep  may  go ; 
And  thou  wilt  read,  and  turn  to  hide 
The  conscious  blush  of  woman's  pride ; 

For  thou  alone  wilt  know 
What  spell  inspired  the  silent  toil 
Of  mid-day  sun  and  midnight  oil. 

And  this  is  little,  to  atone 

For  much  of  grief  and  wrong  ; 

For  doubts  within  the  bosom  sown, 
Cares  checked  and  cherished  long. 

But  it  is  past !  thy  bliss  or  pain 

I  shall  not  mar  or  make  again  ; 
And,  Lady,  this  poor  song 

Is  echoing,  like  a  stranger's  knell, 

Sad,  but  unheeded! — so  farewell! 


AN    EXCUSE. 


BLAME  not  the  Minstrel's  wayward  will : 

His  soul  has  slumbered  all  too  long ; 
He  has  no  pulse  for  passion's  thrill, 

ISTo  lute  for  passion's  song. 
O  frown  not,  though  he  turns  away 

Unloved,  unloving,  even  from  thee, 
And  mars  with  idle  jests  the  lay 

Where  Beauty's  praise  should  be. 

If  he  should  bid  the  golden  string- 
Be  vocal  to  a  loftier  theme, 

Sad  Memory  from  her  cell  would  bring 
The  fond  forbidden  dream ; 

The  dream  of  her,  whose  broken  chain 
Than  new  forged  bonds  is  far  more  dear ; 

Whose  name  he  may  not  speak  again, 
And  shudders  but  to  hear. 

And  if  he  breathes  Love's  hopes  and  fears 
In  many  a  soulless  idol's  shrine, 

The  falsehoods  fit  for  vulgar  ears 
Were  never  fit  for  thine. 


312  AN     EXCUSE. 

Take  back,  take  back  the  book  to-night : 
Thou  art  too  brightly — nobly  fair, 

For  hearts  so  worn  as  his  to  write 
Their  worthless  worship  there. 

(FEBRUARY  20,  1830.^ 


SECOND  LOVE. 


"  L'on  n'aime  bien  qu'une  senle  fois :    c'est  la  premiere.     Les 
amours  qui  suivent  sont  moins  involontairesl" — La  Bruyere. 


How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  stand 

Beside  her  as  she  sings ; 
And  w:itch  that  fine  and  fairy  hand 

Flit  o'er  the  quivering  strings  : 
And  let  him  tell  her  he  has  heard, 

Though  sweet  the  music  flow, 
A  voice  whose  every  whispered  word 

Was  sweeter,  long  ago. 

How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  gaze 

In  sad  and  silent  trance 
On  those  blue  eyes  whose  liquid  rays 

Look  love  in  every  glance  : 
And  let  him  tell  her,  eyes  more  bright, 

Though  bright  her  own  may  beam, 
Will  fling  a  deeper  spell  to-night 

Upon  him  in  his  dream. 

How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  try 

The  charms  of  olden  time, 
14 


314  SECOND     LOVE. 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  rave  in  prose  and  rhyme  : 

And  let  him  tell  her,  when  he  bent 
His  knee  in  other  years, 

He  was  not  half  so  eloquent, — 
He  could  not  speak  for  tears  ! 

How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  bow 

Before  the  shrine  in  prayer  ; 
And  bid  the  priest  pronounce  the  vow 

That  hallows  passion  there  : 
And  let  him  tell  her  when  she  parts 

From  his  urichidden  kiss, 
That  memory  to  many  hearts 

Is  dearer  far  than  bliss. 

Away,  away !  the  chords  are  mute, 

The  bond  is  rent  in  twain  ; 
You  cannot  wake  that  silent  lute, 

Nor  clasp  those  links  again ; 
Love's  toil,  I  know,  is  little  cost, 

Love's  perjury  is  light  sin  ; 
But  souls  that  lose  what  his  hath  lost,- 

Oh,  what  have  they  to  win  ? 


A  RETROSPECT. 

The  lady  of  his  love,  oh,  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ! 

Byron. 

Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  Heaven  ! 

Ford, 


I  KNEW  that  it  must  Le, 

Yea  !  thou  art  changed — all  worshipped  as  thou  art — 
Mourned  as  thou  shalt  be !     Sickness  of  the  heart 

Hath  done  its  work  on  thee ! 

Thy  dim  eyes  tell  a  tale, 
A  piteous  tale,  of  vigils  ;  and  the  trace 
Of  hitter  tears  is  on  thy  beauteous  face — 

Beauteous,  and  yet  so  pale  ! 

Changed  love  !  but  not  alone  ! 
I  am  not  what  they  think  me ;  though  my  cheek 
Wear  but  its  last  year's  furrow,  though  I  speak 

Thus  in  my  natural  tone. 

>L 


316  A     RETROSPECT. 

The  temple  of  my  youth 
Was  strong  in  moral  purpose :  once  1  felt 
The  glory  of  philosophy,  and  knelt 

In  the  pure  shrine  of  truth. 

I  went  into  the  storm, 

And  mocked  the  billows  of  the  tossing  sea ; 
I  said  to  Fate,  "  What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 

I  have  not  harmed  a  worm  !" 

Vainly  the  heart  is  steeled 
In  Wisdom's  armor ;  let  her  burn  her  books! 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  soldier  looks 

Upon  his  cloven  shield. 

Virtue  and  Virtue's  rest, 

How  have  they  perished !  Through  my  onward  course 
Repentance  dogs  my  footsteps!  black  Remorse 

Is  my  familiar  guest ! 

The  glory  and  the  glow 

Of  the  world's  loveliness  have  passed  away  ; 
And  Fate  hath  little  to  inflict,  to-day, 

And  nothing  to  bestow  ! 

Is  not  the  damning  line 
Of  guilt  and  grief  engraven  on  me  now  1 
And  the  iierce  passion  which  hath  scathed  thy  brow, 

Hath  it  not  blasted  mine'? 

No  matter  !  I  will  turn 

To  the  straight  path  of  duty  ;  I  have  wrought, 
At  last,  my  wayward  spirit  to  be  taught 

Wrhat  it  hath  yet  to  learn. 


A     RETROSPECT.  3l7 

Labor  shall  bo  my  lot ; 
My  kindred  shall  be  joyful  in  mv  praise  ; 
And  Fame  shall  twine  for  me,  in  after  days, 

A  wreath  I  covet  not. 

And  if  I  cannot  make, 

Dearest !  thy  hope  my  hope,  thy  trust  my  trust, 
Yet  will  I  study  to  be  good,  and  just, 

And  blameless,  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  may'st  have  comfort  yet  ! 
Whate'er  the  source  from  which  those  waters  glide, 
Thou  hast  found  healing  mercy  in  their  tide ; 

Be  happy  and  forget ! 

Forget  me — and  farewell ! 
But  say  not  that  in  me  new  hopes  and  fears, 
Or  absence,  or  the  lapse  of  gradual  years, 

Will  break  thy  memory's  spell ! 

Indelibly,  within, 

All  I  have  lost  is  written ;  and  the  theme 
Which  Silence  whispers  to  my  thought    and  dream 

Is  sorrow  still — and  sin  ! 

(1831.) 


A  BALLAD  : 

TEACHING   HOW   POETEY    IS    BEST   PAID    FOE. 

N"on  voglio  cento  scudi. — Italian  Song. 

OH,  say  not  the  minstrel's  art, 

The  glorious  gift  of  verse, 
Though  his  hopes  decay,  though  his  friends  depart, 

Can  ever  be  a  curse ; — 
Though  sorrow  reign  within  his  heart, 

And  poortith  hold  his  purse. 

Say  not  his  toil  is  profitless ; — 

Though  he  charm  no  rich  relation., 
The  Fairies  all  his  labors  bless 

With  such  remuneration, 
As  Mr.  Hume  would  soon  confess 

Beyond  his  calculation. 

Annuities,  and  three  per  cents, 

Little  cares  he  about  them ; 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents, 

He  rambles  on  without  them  : 
But  love,  and  noble  sentiments, — 

Oh,  never  bid  him  doubt  them ! 


A      BALLAD.  3. 

Childe  Florice  rose  from  his  humble  bed, 
And  prayed  as  a  good  youth  should  ; 

And  forth  he  sped,  with  a  lightsome  tread, 
Into  the  neighboring  wood; 

He  knew  where  the  berries  were  ripe  and  red, 
And  where  the  old  oak  stood. 

And  as  he  lay  at  the  noon  of  day, 

Beneath  the  ancient  tree, 
A  grayhaired  pilgrim  passed  that  way  ; 

A  holy  man  was  he, 
And  he  was  wending  forth  to  pray 

At  a  shrine  in  a  far  countrie. 

Oh,  his  was  a  weary  wandering, 

And  a  song  or  two  might  cheer  him. 

The  pious  Childe  began  to  sing, 

As  the  ancient  man  drew  near  him  ; 

The  lark  was  mute  as  he  touched  the  string, 
And  the  thrush  said,  "  Hear  him,  hear  him  !" 

He  sang  high  tales  of  the  martyred  brave  ; 

Of  the  good,  and  pure,  and  just ; 
Who  have  gone  into  the  silent  grave, 

In  such  deep  faith  and  trust, 
That  the  hopes  and  thoughts  which  sain  and  save 

Spring  from  their  buried  dust. 

The  fair  of  face,  and  the  stout  of  limb, 

Meek  maids,  and  grandsires  hoary, 
Who  have  sung  on  the  cross  their  rapturous  hymn, 

As  they  passed  to  their  doom  of  glory — 


320  A     BALLAD. 

Their  radiant  fame  is  never  dim, 
Nor  their  names  erased  from  story. 

Time  spares  the  stone  where  sleep  the  dead 
With  angels  watching  round  them  ; 

The  mourner's  grief  is  comforted, 

As  he  looks  on  the  chains  that  bound  them ; 

And  peace  is  shed  on  the  murderer's  head, 
And  he  lueses  the  thorns  that  crowned  them. 

Such  tales  he  told ;  and  the  pilgrim  heard 

In  a  trance  of  voiceless  pleasure  ; 
For  the  depths  of  his  inmost  soul  were  stirred, 

By  the  sad  and  solemn  measure  : 
"I  give  thee  my  blessing," — was  his  word; 
"  It  is  all  I  .have  of  treasure  !" 


A  little  child  came  bounding  by ; 

And  he,  in  a  fragrant  bower, 
Had  found  a  gorgeous  butterfly, 

Rare  spoil  for  a  nursery  dower, 
Which,  with  fierce  step,  and  eager  eye, 

He  chased  from  flower  to  flower. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither/'  'gan  Florice  call 

And  the  urchin  left  his  fun ; 
So  from  the  hall  of  poor  Sir  Paul 

Retreats  the  baffled  dun  ; 
So  Ellen  parts  from  the  village  ball, 

Where  she  leaves  a  heart  half  won. 


A      BALLAD.  321 

Then  Florice  did  the  child  caress, 

And  sang  his  sweetest  songs : 
Their  theme  was  of  the  gentleness 

Which  to  the  soul  belongs, 
Ere  yet  it  knows  the  name  or  dress 

Of  human  rights  and  wrongs. 

And  of  the  wants  which  make  agree 

All  parts  of  this  vast  plan ; 
How  life  is  in  whate'er  we  see, 

And  only  life  in  man  : — 
What  matter  where  the  less  may  be, 

And  where  the  longer  span  ? 

And  how  the  heart  grows  cold  without 

Soft  Pity's  freshening  dews  ; 
And  how  when  any  life  goes  out 

Some  little  pang  ensues  ; — 
Facts  which  great  soldiers  often  doubt, 

And  wits  who  write  reviews. 

Oh,  Song  hath  power  o'er  Nature's  springs, 
Though  deep  the  nymph  has  laid  them  ! 

The  child  gazed,  gazed,  on  gilded  wings, 
As  the  next  light  breeze  displayed  them ; 

But  he  felt  the  while  that  the  meanest  things 
Are  dear  to  him  that  made  them  ! 


The  sun  went  down  behind  the  hill, 

The  breeze  was  growing  colder 
14* 


322  A     BALLAD. 

But  there  the  minstrel  lingered  still ; 

And  amazed  the  chance  beholder, 
Musing  beside  a  rippling  rill, 

With  a  harp  upon  his  shoulder. 

And  soon,  on  a  graceful  steed  and  tame, 

A  sleek  Arabian  mare, 
The  Lady  Juliana  came, 

Eiding  to  take  the  air, 
With  many  a  lord,  at  whose  proud  name 

A  radical  would  swear. 

The  minstrel  touched  his  lute  again. 

It  was  more  than  a  Sultan's  crown, 
When  the  lady  checked  her  bridle  rein, 

And  lit  from  her  palfrey  down : — 
What  would  you  give  for  such  a  strain, 

Rees,  Longman.  Orme,  and  Brown  ? 

He  sang  of  Beauty's  dazzling  eyes, 

Of  Beauty's  melting  tone  ; 
And  how  her  praise  is  a  richer  prize 

Than  the  gems  of  Persia's  throne  ; 
And  her  love  a  bliss  which  the  coldly  wise 

Have  never,  never  known. 

He  told  how  the  valiant  scoff  at  fear, 
When  the  sob  of  her  grief  is  heard  ; 

How  fiercely  they  fight  for  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
How  they  die  for  a  single  word: — 

Things  which,  I  own,  to  me  appear 
Exceedingly  absurd. 


A      BALLAD. 

The  Lady  soon  had  heard  enough  : 

She  turned  to  hear  Sir  Denys 
Discourse,  in  language  vastly  gruff, 

About  his  skill  at  Tennis; 
While  smooth  Sir  Guy  described  the  stuff 

His  mistress  wore  at  Venice. 

The  Lady  smiled  one  radiant  smile, 

And  the  Lady  rode  away. — 
There  is  not  a  lady  in  all  our  Isle, 

I  have  heard  a  Poet  say, 
Who  can  listen  more  than  a  little  while 

To  a  poet's  sweetest  lay. 

His  mother's  voice  was  fierce  and  shrill, 

As  she  set  the  milk  and  fruit : 
"  Out  on  thine  unrewarded  skill, 

And  on  thy  vagrant  lute ; 
Let  the  strings  be  broken  an  they  will, 

And  the  beggar  lips  be  mute !" 

Peace,  peace  ! — the  Pilgrim  as  he  went 

Forgot  the  minstrel's  song  ; 
But  the  blessing  that  his  wan  lips  sent 

Will  guard  the  minstrel  long  ; 
And  keep  his  spirit  innocent, 

And  turn  his  hand  from  wrong. 

Belike  the  child  had  little  thought 
Of  the  moral  the  minstrel  drew  ; 

But  the  dream  of  a  deed  of  kindness  wrought- 
Brings  it  not  peace  to  you  1 


324  A     BALLAD. 

And  doth  not  a  lesson  of  virtue  taught 
Teach  him  that  teaches  too  ? 

And  if  the  Lady  sighed  no  sigh 
For  the  minstrel  or  his  hymn ; — 

Yet  when  he  shall  lie  'neath  the  moonlit  sky, 
Or  lip  the  goblet's  brim, 

What  a  star  in  the  mist  of  memory 
That  smile  will  be  to  him  ! 

(1831.) 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IX    THE    FIRST    LEAF    OF    LILLIAN. 

TALK  not  to  me  of  learned  dust, 

Of  reasoning  and  renown, 
Of  withering  wreath  and  crumbling  bust, 

Torn  book  and  tattered  gown  ; 
Oh,  Wisdom  lives  in  Folly's  ring, 
And  beards,  thank  Heaven,  are  not  the  thing  ! 

Then  let  me  live  a  long  romance, 

And  learn  to  trifle  well ; 
And  write  my  motto,  "  Vive  la  danse," 

And  "  Vive  la  bagatelle  !" 
And  give  all  honor,  as  is  fit, 
To  sparkling  eyes,  and  sparkling  wit. 

And  let  me  deem,  when  Sophs  condemn 

And  Seniors  burn  my  lays, 
That  some  bright  eyes  will  smile  on  them, 

And  some  kind  hearts  will  praise ; 
And  thus  my  little  book  shall  be 
A  mine  of  pleasant  thoughts  to  rue. 


328  STANZAS. 

A 

And  we,  perchance,  may  meet  no  more  ; 

For  other  accents  sound 
And  darker  prospects  spread  before, 

And  colder  hearts  come  round  ; 
And  cloistered  walk  and  grated  pane 
Must  wear  their  wonted  gloom  again. 

But  those  who  meet,  as  we  have  met, 

In  frolic  and  in  laughter, — 
O,  dream  not  they  can  e'er  forget 

The  thoughts  that  linger  after  ; 
That  parted  friend  and  faded  scene  • 
Can  be  as  if  they  ne'er  had  been. 

No !  I  shall  miss  that  merry  smile 

When  thou  hast  left  me  lone  ; 
And  listen  in  the  silent  aisle 

For  that  remembered  tone  ; 
And  look  up  to  the  lattice  high 
For  beckoning  hand  and  beaming  eye. 

And  thou,  perhaps,  when  years  are  gone, 

Wilt  turn  these  pages  over, 
And  waste  one  idle  thought  upon 

A  rambling,  rhyming  rover, 
And  deem  the  Poet  and  his  line 
Both  wild,  both  worthless, — and  both  thine  ! 

(TRIN.  COLL.,  CAMBRIDGE, 
July  8,   1823.) 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COPY  OF  LILLIAN,  SENT  TO  A  LADY 
IN  EXCHANGE  FOR  TWO  DRAWINGS  ILLUSTRATIVE 
OF  THE  POEM. 

THE  gifts  the  Rhymer  begs  to-day 

Shall  long  be  dear  to  him, 
When  Passion's  glow  shall  pass  away, 

And  Fancy's  light  grow  dim, 
And  naught  remain  of  boyhood's  schemes, 
But  Sorrow's  tears,  and  Memory's  dreams. 

Yes,  dear  the  gifts  shall  ever  be  ; 

For  Humor  there  hath  flung 
A  spell  of  magic  witchery 

On  all  he  thought  and  sung, 
And  blended  in  a  living  dance 
The  creatures  of  his  own  romance. 

E'en  he  might  shudder  at  the  sight 

Of  his  own  monster's  fenst ; 
E'en  he  might  feel  a  swe?t  affright, 

As,  ruling  the  rude  beast, 
His  own  fair  damsel  skims  the  sea 
In  all  her  headless  ecstasy. 


S  T  A  N  /AS. 

These  gifts  shall  be  unfading  signs 

That,  in  his  early  days, 
Some  beaming  eyes  could  read  his  lines, 

Some  beauteous  lips  could  praise  ; 
Fair  Lady,  from  the  cup  of  bliss 
He  wants  and  wishes  only  this ! 

For  he  was  born  a  wayward  boy, 
To  laugh  when  hopes  deceive  him, 

To  grasp  at  every  fleeting  joy, 
And  jest  at  all  that  leave  him, 

To  love  a  quirk,  and  loathe  a  qirarrel, 

And  never  care  a  stra\v  for  laurel. 

And  thus,  the  creature  of  a  day, 
And  rather  fool  than  knave, 

And  either  very  gravely  gay 
Or  very  gayly  grave, 

He  cares  for  naught  but  wit  and  win-1, 

And  flatteries, — such  as  this  of  thine! 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A   DESCRIPTIVE    POEM.* 

And  now 

He  stood  upon  the  beetling  brow 
Of  a  huge  cliff,  and  marked  beneath 
The  sea-foam  fling  its  hoary  wreath 
Upon  the  shore,  and  heard  the  waves 
Run  howling  through  their  hollow  caves. 
Far  on  the  right  old  Ocean  lay ; 
But  he  had  hushed  his  storm  to-day, 
And  seemed  to  murmur  a  long  sigh, 
A  melancholy  melody,    - 
As  if  his  mourning  had  begun 
For  what  he  yesternight  had  done  : 
And  on  the  left,  in  beauteous  pride, 
The  river  poured  his  rushing  tide ; 
Fanned,  as  he  came,  by  odorous  gales 
From  grassy  hills  and  mossy  vales, 
And  gardens,  where  young  nature  set 
No  mask  upon  her  features  yet, 
And  sands  which  were  as  smooth  as  stone, 
And  woods  whose  birth  no  eye  had  known, 

*  These  lines  were  sent  in  a  letter,  "  instead  of  a  Valentine/'1   The  view  de 
scribed  is  that  from  the  Ness,  looking  towards  Teignmouth,  Devon. 


FRAGMENTS     OF     A     DESCRIPTIVE     POEM. 

And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seemed  bowers, 
So  bright  they  were  with  herbs  and  flowers. 

He  looked  across  the  river  stream ; 

A  little  town  was  there, 
O'er  which  the  morning's  earliest  beam 

Was  wandering  fresh  and  fair ; 
No  architect  of  classic  school 
Had  pondered  there  with  line  and  rule  ; 
And,  stranger  still,  no  modern  master 
Had  wasted  there  his  lath  and  plaster ; 
The  buildings  in  strange  order  lay, 
As  if  the  streets  had  lost  their  way, 
Fantastic,  puzzling,  narrow,  muddy, 
Excess  of  toil  from  lack  of  study, 
Where  Fashion's  very  newest  fangles 
Had  no  conception  of  right  angles. 
But  still  about  that  humble  place 
There  was  a  look  of  rustic  grace  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  see  the  sports  and  labors 
And  morning  greetings  of  good  neighbors, 
The  seamen  mending  sails  and  oars, 
The  matrons  knitting  at  the  doors, 
The  invalids  enjoying  dips, 
The  children  launching  tiny  ships, 
The  beldames  clothed  in  rags  and  wrinkles 
Investigating  periwinkles. 
A  little  further  up  the  tide, 
There  beamed  upon  the  river  side 
A  shady  dwelling-place :     *  * 


FRAGMENTS     OF     A     DESCRIPTIVE     POEM.    333 

Most  beautiful !  upon  that  spot, 

Beside  that  echoing  wave, 
A  Fairy  might  have  built  her  grot, 

An  Anchorite  his  grave. 
The  river,  with  its  constant  fall, 
Came  daily  to  the  garden  wall, 
As  if  it  longed,  but  thought  it  sin, 
To  look  upon  the  charms  within  ; 
Behind,  majestic  mountains  frowned, 
And  dark  rich  groves  were  all  around, 
And  just  before  the  gate  there  stood 
Two  trees  which  were  themselves  a  wood ; 
Two  lovely  trees,  whoso  clasping  forms 
Were  blender!  still  in  calms  and  storms — 
Like  sisters,  who  have  lived  together 
Through  every  change  of  Fortune's  weather, 
United  in  their  bliss  or  sorrow, 
Their  yesterday,  and  their  to-morrow, — 
So  fond,  so  faithful, — you  would  wonder 
To  see  them  smile  or  weep  asunder. 


(MARCH,  1826.) 


A  PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  a  tale  of  Love  to  tell ; — 
Lend  me  thy  light  lute,  L.  E.  L. 

Lend  me  thy  lute !  what  other  strings 

Should  speak  of  those  delicious  things, 

Which  constitute  Love's  joys  and  woes 

In  pretty  duodecimos  ? 

Thou  knowest  every  herb  and  flower, 

Of  wondrous  name,  and  wondrous  power, 

Which,  gathered  where  white  wood-doves  nestle, 

And  beat  up  by  poetic  pestle, 

Bind  gallant  knights  in  fancied  fetters, 

And  set  young  ladies  writing  letters  : 

Thou  singest  songs  of  floods  :md  fountains, 

Of  mounted  lords  and  lordly  mountains, 

Of  dazzling  shields  and  dazzling  glances, 

Of  piei-cing  frowns  and  piercing  lance>, 

Of  leaping  brands  and  sweeping  willows, 

Of  dreading  seas  and  dreaming  billows, 

Of  sunbeams  which  are  like  red  wine, 

Of  odorous  lamps  of  argentine, 

Of  cheeks  that  burn,  of  hearts  that  freeze, 

Of  odors  that  send  messages, 


A     PREFACE.  335 

Of  kingfishers  and  silver  pheasants, 

Of  gems  to  which  the  Sun  makes  presents, 

Of  miniver  and  timeworn  walls, 

Of  clairschachs  and  of  atabals. 

Within  thy  passion-haunted  pages 

Throng  forward  girls — and  distant  ages, 

The  lifeless  learns  at  once  to  live, 

The  dumb  grows  strangely  talkative, 

Resemblances  begin  to  strike 

In  things  exceedingly  unlike, 

All  nouns,  like  statesmen,  suit  all  places, 

And  verbs,  turned  lawyers,  hunt  for  cases. 

Oh!  if  it  be  a  crime  to  languish 

Over  thy  scenes  of  bliss  or  anguish, 

To  float  with  Raymond  o'er  the  sea, 

To  sigh  with  dark-eyed  Rosalie, 

And  sit  in  revery  luxurious 

Till  tea  grows  cold,  and  aunts  grow  furious, 

I  own  the  soft  impeachment  true, 

And  burn  the  Westminster  Review. 

Lend  me  thy  lute ;  I'll  be  a  poet ; 

All  Paternoster  Row  shall  know  it ! 

I'll  rail  in  rhyme  at  cruel  Fate 

From  Temple  Bar  to  Tyburn  Gate ; 

Old  Premium's  daughter  in  the  City 

Shall  feel  that  love  is  kin  to  pity, 

Hot  ensigns  shall  be  glad  to  borrow 

My  notes  of  rapture  and  of  sorrow, 

And  I  shall  hear  sweet  voices  sighing, 


336  A     PREFACE. 

"So  young! — and  I  am  told  he's  dying!" 

Yes !  I  shall  wear  a  wreath  eternal, 

For  full  twelve  months,  in  Post  and  Journal, 

Admired  by  all  the  Misses  Brown 

Who  go  to  school  at  Kentish  Town, 

And  worshipped  by  the  fair  Arachne 

Who  makes  my  handkerchiefs  at  Hackney ! 

Yain,  vain ! — take  back  the  lute  !     I  see 

Its  chords  were  never  meant  for  me. 

For  thine  own  song,  for  thine  own  hand, 

That  lute  was  strung  in  Fairy-land  ; 

And,  if  a  stranger's  thumb  should  fling 

Its  rude  touch  o'er  one  golden  string, — 

Good-night  to  all  the  music  in  it ! 

The  string  would  crack  in  half  a  minute. 

Take  back  the  lute !     I  make  no  claim 

To  inspiration  or  to  fame  ; 

The  hopes  and  fears  that  bards  should  cherish, 

I  care  not  when  they  fade  and  perish ; 

I  read  political  economy, 

Voltaire  and  Cobbett,  and  gastronomy, 

And,  when  I  would  indite  a  story 

Of  woman's  faith  or  warrior's  glory, 

I  always  wear  a  night-cap  sable, 

And  put  my  elbows  on  the  table, 

And  hammer  out  the  tedious  toil 

By  dint  of  Walker,  and  lamp-oil. 

I  never  feel  poetic  mania, 

I  gnaw  no  laurel  with  Urania, 


A     PREFACE.  337 


I  court  no  critic's  tender  mercies, 
I  count  the  feet  in  all  my  verses, 
And  own  myself  a  screaming  gander 
Among  the  shrill  swans  of  Maeander ! 

(1824.) 

15 


LOVE  AT  A  ROUT 

X  some  mad  bard  sits  down  to  muse 
About  the  lilies  and  the  dews, 
The  grassy  vales  and  sloping  lawns, 
Fairies  and  Satyrs,  Nymphs  and  Fauns, 
He's  apt  to  think,  he's  apt  to  swear, 
That  Cupid  reigns  not  anywhere 
Except  in  some  sequestered  village 
Where  peasants  live  on  truth  and  tillage, 
That  none  are  fair  enough  for  witches 
But  maids  who  frisk  through  dells  and  ditches, 
That  dreams  are  twice  as  sweet  as  dances, 
That  cities  never  breed  romances, 
That  Beauty  always  keeps  a  cottage, 
And  Purity  grows  pale  on  pottage. 

Yes  !  those  dear  dreams  are  all  divine  ; 
And  those  dear  dreams  have  all  been  mine. 
I  like  the  stream,  the  rock,  the  bay, 
I  like  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay, 
I  like  the  babbling  of  the  brooks, 
I  like  the  creaking  of  the  crooks, 
I  like  the  peaches,  and  the  posies, — 
But  chiefly,  when  the  season  closes, 


LOVE     AT     A     ROUT.  339 

And  often,  in  the  month  of  fan, 
When  every  poacher  cleans  his  gun, 
And  cockneys  tell  enormous  lies, 
And  stocks  are  pretty  sure  to  rise, 
And  e'en  the  Chancellor,  they  say, 
Goes  to  a  point  the  nearest  way — 
I  hurry  from  my  drowsy  desk 
To  revel  in  the  picturesque ; 
To  hear  beneath  those  ancient  trees 
The  far-off  murmur  of  the  bees, 
Or  trace  yon  river's  mazy  channels 
With  Petrarch,  and  a  brace  of  spaniels, 
Combining  foolish  rhymes  together, 
And  killing  sorrow,  and  shoe-leather. 

Then,  as  I  see  gome  rural  maid 
Come  dancing  up  the  sunny  glade, 
Coquetting  with  her  fond  adorer 
Just  as  her  mother  did  before  her, 
"  Give  me,"  I  cry,  "  the  quiet  bliss 
Of  souls  like  these,  of  scenes  like  this  ; 
Where  ladies  eat  and  sleep  in  peace, 
Where  gallants  never  heard  of  Greece, 
Where  day  is  day,  and  night  is  night, 
Where  frocks — and  morals — both  are  white ; 
Blue  eyes  below — blue  skies  above — 
These  are  the  homes,  the  hearts,  for  Love!" 

But  this  is  idle  ;  I  have  been 
A  sojourner  in  many  a  scene, 


340  LOVE     AT     A     ROTT. 

And  picked  up  wisdom  in  my  way, 
And  cared  not  what  I  had  to  pay  ; 
Smiling  and  weeping  all  the  while, 
As  other  people  weep  and  smile  ; 
And  I  have  learned  that  Love  is  not 
Confined  to  any  hour  or  spot ; 
He  lights  the  smile  and  fires  the  frown 
Alike  in  country  and  in  town. 
I  own  fair  faces  not  more  fail- 
In  Ettrick,  than  in  Portman  Square, 
And  silly  danglers  just  as  silly 
In  Sherwood,  as  in  Piccadilly. 
Soft  tones  are  not  the  worse,  no  doubt, 
For  having  harps  to  help  them  out ; 
And  smiles  are  not  a  ray  more  bright 
By  moonbeams,  than  by  candle-light ; 
I  know  much  magic  oft  reposes 
On  wreaths  of  artificial  roses, 
And  snowy  necks, — I  never  found  them 
Quite  spoilt  by  having  cameos  round  them. 
In  short,  I'm  very  sure  that  all 
Who  seek  or  sigh  for  Beauty's  thrall 
May  breathe  their  vows,  and  feed  their  passion, 
Though  whist  and  waltzing  keep  in  fashion, 
And  make  the  most  delicious  sonnets, 
In  spite  of  diamonds,  and  French  bonnets  ! 

(1824.; 


THE   MODERN    NECTAR. 

ONE  day,  as  Bacchus  wandered  out 

From  his  own  gay  and  glorious  heaven, 
To  see  what  mortals  were  about 

Below,  'twixt  six:  o'clock  and  seven, 
And  laugh  at  all  the  toils  and  tears, 
The  endless  hopes,  the  causeless  fears, 
The  midnight  songs,  the  morning  smarts, 
The  aching  heads,  the  breaking  hearts, 
Which  he  and  his  fair  crony  Venus 
Within  the  month  had  sown  between  us, 
He  lighted  by  chance  on  a  fiddling  fellow 
Who  never  was  known  to  be  less  than  mellow, 
A  wandering  poet,  who  thought  it  his  duty 
To  feed  upon  nothing  but  bowls  and  beauty, 
Who  worshipped  a  rhyme,  and  detested  a  quarrel, 
And  cared  not  a  single  straw  for  laurel, 
Holding  that  grief  was  sobriety's  daughter, 
And  loathing  critics,  and  cold  water. 

Ere  day  on  the  Gog-Magog  hills  had  fainted, 
The  god  and  the  minstrel  were  quite  acquainted  ; 
Beneath  a  tree,  in  the  sunny  weather, 
They  sat  them  down,  and  drank  together : 


342  THE     MODERN     NECTAR. 

They  drank  of  all  fluids  that  ever  were  poured 

By  an  English  lout,  or  a  German  lord, 

Rum  and  shrub  and  brandy  and  gin, 

One  after  another,  they  stowed  them  in, 

Claret  of  Carbonell,  porter  of  Meux, 

Champagne  which  would  waken  a  wit  in  dukes, 

Humble  Port,  and  proud  Tokay, 

Persico,  and  Creme  de  The, 

The  blundering  Irishman's  Usquebaugh, 

The  fiery  Welshman's  Cwnv  da  ; 

And  after  toasting  various  names 

Of  mortal  and  immortal  flames, 

And  whispering  more  than  I  or  you  know 

Of  Mistress  Poll,  and  Mistress  Juno, 

The  god  departed,  scarcely  knowing 

A  zephyr's  from  a  nose's  blowing, 

A  frigate  from  a  pewter  flagon, 

Or  Thespis  from  his  own  stage  wagon  ; 

And  rolling  about  like  a  barrel  of  grog, 

He  went  up  to  heaven  as  drunk  as  a  hog ! 

"  Now  may  I,"  he  lisped,  "  forever  sit 

In  Lethe's  darkest  and  deepest  pit, 

Where  dulness  everlasting  reigns 

O'er  the  quiet  pulse  and  the  drowsy  brains, 

Where  ladies  jest,  and  lovers  laugh, 

And  noble  lords  are  bound  in  calf, 

And  Zoilus  for  his  sins  rehearses 

Old  Bentham's  prose,  old  Wordsworth's  verses, 

If  I  have  not  found  a  richer  draught 


THE     MODERN     NECTAR.  343 

Than  ever  yet  Olympus  quaffed, 
Better  and  brighter  and  dearer  far 
Than  the  golden  sands  of  Pactolus  are  !" 

And  then  he  filled  in  triumph  up, 

To  the  highest  top-sparkle,  Jove's  beaming  cup, 

And  pulling  up  his  silver  hose, 

And  turning  in  life  tottering  toes 

(While  Hebe,  as  usual,  the  mischievous  gypsy, 

Was  laughing  to  see  her  brother  tipsy), 

He  said — "May  it  please  your  high  Divinity, 

This  nectar  is— Milk  Punch  at  Trinitv  !" 


(1825.) 


MY  OWN  FUNERAL. 


FROM    DE    BERAXGER. 

THIS  morning,  as  in  bed  I  lay, 

Half  waking  and  half  sleeping 
A  score  of  Loves,  immensely  gay, 

Were  round  my  chamber  creeping ; 
I  could  not  move  my  hand  or  head 

To  ask  them  what  the  stir  meant : 
And  "Ah,"  they  cried,  "  our  friend  is  dead  ; 

Prepare  for  his  interment !" 

All  whose  hearts  with  mine  were  blended, 
Weep  for  me  !  my  days  are  ended  ! 

One  drinks  my  brightest  Burgundy, 

Without  a  blush,  before  me  ; 
One  brings  a  little  rosary, 

And  breathes  a  blessing  o'er  me; 
One  finds  my  pretty  chambermaid, 

And  courts  her  in  dumb  crambo  ; 
Another  sees  the  mutes  arrayed 

With  fife  by  way  of  flambe.-ui : 


MY      OWN     FUNERAL.  345 

Iii  your  feasting  and  your  feting, 
Weep  for  me  !  my  hearse  is  waiting. 

Was  ever  such  a  strange  array  ? 

The  mourners  all  are  singing ; 
From  all  the  churches  on  our  way 

A  merry  peal  is  ringing  ; 
The  pall  that  clothes  my  cold  remains, 

Instead  of  boars  and  dragons, 
Is  blazoned  o'er  with  darts  and  chains, 

With  lutes,  and  flowers,  and  flagons  : 
Passers-by  their  heads  are  shaking !  — 
Weep  for  me !  my  grave  is  making. 

And  now  they  let  my  coffin  fall ; 

And  one  of  them  rehearses, 
For  want  of  holy  ritual, 

My  own  least  holy  verses  : 
The  sculptor  carves  a  laurel  leaf, 

And  writes  my  name  and  story ; 
And  silent  nature  in  her  grief 

Seems  dreaming  of  my  glory  : 
Just  as  I  am  made  immortal, — 
Weep  for  me  ! — they  bar  the  portal. 

But  Isabel,  by  accident, 

Was  wandering  by  that  minute ; 
She  opened  that  dark  monument, 

And  found  her  slave  within  it ; 
15* 


346  MY      O  W  N     F  U  N  E  K  A  L. 

The  clergy  said  the  Mass  in  vain, 
The  College  could  not  save  me; 
But  life,  she  swears,  returned  again 
With  the  first  kiss  she  gave  me : 
You  who  deem  that  life  is  sorrow, 
Weep  for  me  again  to-morrow  ! 

(1826.) 


TIME'S  SOXG. 

O'ER  the  level  plains,  where  mountains  greet  me  as  I  go, 
O'er  the  desert  waste,  where  fountains  at  my  bidding 

flow, 

On  the  boundless  beam  by  day,  on  the  cloud  by  night, 
I  am  riding  hence  away:  who  will  chain  my  flight? 

War  his  weary  watch  was  keeping, — I  have  crushed 

his  spear ; 
Grief  within  her  bower  wras  weeping, — I  have  dried 

her  tear ; 

Pleasure  caught  a  minute's  hold, — then  I  hurried  by, 
Leaving  all  her  banquet  cold,  and  her  goblet  dry. 

Power  had  won  a  throne  of  glory :  where  is  now  his 

fame  ? 
Genius  said  "I  live  in  story:"  who  hath  heard  his 

name  ? 
Love  beneath  a  myrtle  bough  whispered,  "  Why  so 

fast  ?" 
And  the  roses  on  his  brow  withered  as  I  past. 

I  have  heard  the  heifer  lowing  o'er  the  wild  wave's  bed ; 
I  have  seen  the  billow  flowing  where  the  cattle  fed ; 
Where  began  my  wanderings  ?    Memory  will  not  say ! 
Where  will  rest  my   weary  wings  ?     Science   turns 


away! 


(1826.) 


FROM  METASTASIO. 

THE  venomous  serpent,  dearest, 

Shall  couch  with  the  cushat  dove, 
Ere  a  true  friend,  as  thou  fearest, 

Shall  ever  be  false  in  Love. 
From  Eden's  greenest  mountain 

Two  separate  streamlets  came ; 
But  their  source  was  in  one  fountain, 

Their  waters  are  the  same ! 


(MAY  21,  182G.) 


LINES 

WRITTEN    OX    THE    EVE    OF  A  COLLEGE    EXAMINATION. 
I. 

ST.  MARY'S   tolls   Her  longest    chime,    and   slumber 

softly  falls 
On    Granta's  quiet  solitudes,  her   cloisters   and  her 

halls  ; 
But  trust  me,  little  rest  is  theirs,  who  play  in  glory's 

game, 
And  throw  to-morrow  their  last  throw  for  academic 

fame ; 
Whose  hearts  have  panted  for  this  hour,  and,  while 

slow  months  went  by, 
Beat  high  to  live  in  story — half  a  dozen  stories  high. 

ii. 

No  ;  there  is  no  repose  for  them,  the  solitary  few, 

Who  muse  on  all  that  they  have  done,  and  all  they 
meant  to  do ; 

And  leave  the  prisoned  loveliness  of  some  hope- 
haunted  book, 

With  many  a  melancholy  sigh,  and  many  an  anxious 
look; 

As  lovers  look  their  last  upon  the  Lady  of  their 
fancies, 

When  barb  or  bark  is  waiting,  in  the  middle  of 
romances. 


350          BEFORE      A      COLLEGE      EXAMINATION. 
III. 

And  some  were  born  to  be  the  first,  and  some  to  be 

the  last  :— 
I  cannot  change  the  future  now  ;  I  will  not  mourn 

the  past ; 
But  while  the  firelight  flickers,  and  the  lonely  lamp 

burns  dim, 

I'll  fill  one  glass  of  Claret  till  it  sparkles  to  the  brim, 
And,  like  a  knight  of  chivalry  first  vaulting  on  his 

steed, 
Commend  me  to  my  Patron  Saint,  for  a  blessing  and 

good  speed  ! — 

IV. 

0  Lady  !    if    my   pulse  beats   quick,  and  my  heart 

trembles  now, 
If  there  is  flush  upon  my  cheek,  and  fever  on  my 

bro  w, 

It  is  not,  Lady,  that  I  think,  as  others  think  to-night, 
Upon  the  struggle  and  the  prize,  the   doubt  and  the 

delight, 

Nor  that  I  feel,  as  I  have  felt,  ambition's  idle  thrill, 
Nor  that  defeat,  so  bitter  once,  is  bitter  to  me  still : 

v. 

1  think  of  thee  !  I  think   of  thee !  It  is  but  for  thy 

sake 

That  wearied  energies  arise,  and   slumbering  hopes 
awake ; 


BEFORE      A     COLLEGE     EXAMINATION'.          351 

For  others  other  smiles  might  beam,  so  only  one  were 

mine  ; 
For    others   other   praise    might    sound,  so   I   were 

worthy  thine  ; 
On  other  brows  the  wreath  might  bloom,  but  it  were 

more  than  bliss 
To  fling1  it  at  thy  feet,  and  say,  "  Thy  friendship  hath 

done  this." 

VI. 

Whate'er  of  chastened  pride  is  mine,  whate'er  of 
nurtured  power, 

Of  self-restraint  when  suns  invite,  of  faith  when  tem 
pests  lower, 

Whate'er  of  morning  joy  I  have,  whate'er  of  even 
ing  rest, 

Whate'er  of  love  I  yet  deserve  from  those  I  love  the 
best, 

Whate'er  of  honest  fame  upon  my  after  life  may 
be, — 

To  thee,  my  best  and  fairest, — I  shall  owe  it  all  to 
thce ! 

VII. 

I  am  alone — I  am  alone  !  thou  art  not  by  my  side 
To  smile  on   me,  to   speak  to  ine,  to  flatter  or  to 

chide  ; 
But  oh !    if  Fortune  favor  now  the  effort   and   the 

prayer, 
My  heart   will  strive,  when  friends   come  round,  to 

fancy  thou  art  there ; 


8o2  BEFORE     A     COLLEGE     EXAMINATION. 

To  hear  in  every  kindly  voice  an  echo  of  thy  tone, 
And  clasp  in  every  proffered  hand  the  pressure  of 
thy  own. 

VIII. 

As  those  who  shed  in  Fairy-land  their  childhood's 

happy  tears 
Have  still  its  trees  before  their   sight,  its  music  in 

their  ears, 
Thus,  midst  the  cold  realities  of  this  soul-wearying 

scene, 
My  heart   will  shrink  from  that  which  is,  to  that 

which  once  hath  been  ; 
Till  common  haunts,  where  strangers  meet  to  sorrow 

or  rejoice, 
Grow  radiant  with  thy  loveliness,  and  vocal  with  thy 

voice. 

IX. 

My  sister ! — for  no   sister  can  be  dearer  than  thou 

art — 
My  sister ! — for  thou  hadst  to  me  indeed  a  sister's 

heart, — 
Our  paths  are  all   divided  now,  but  believe  that  I 

obey, 
And  tell  me  thou  beholdest  what  I  bid  thee   not 

repay : 
The  star  in  heaven  looks  brightest  down  upon  the 

watery  tide : 
It  may  not  warm  the   mariner, — dear  Lady,  let  it 

guide ! 


ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES. 


Diogenes  Alexaudro  roganti  ut  diceret,  si  quid  opus  esset,  "nnno 
quidem  paullulum,"  inquit,  "  a  sole." — Cicero  Tusc.  Disp. 


SLOWLY  the  monarch  turned  aside  : 
But  when  his  glance  of  youthful  pride 
Rested  upon  the  warriors  gray 
Who  bore  his  lance  and  shield  that  day, 
And  the  long  line  of  spears,  that  came 
Through  the  far  grove  like  waves  of  flame, 
His  forehead  burned,  his  pulse  beat  high, 
More  darkly  flashed  his  shifting  eye, 
And  visions  of  the  battle-plain 
Came  bursting  on  his  soul  again. 


r- 


The  old  man  drew  his  gaze  away 
Right  gladly  from  that  long  array, 
As  if  their  presence  were  a  blight 
Of  pain  and  sickness  to  his  sight ; 
And  slowly  folding  o'er  his  breast 
The  fragments  of  his  tattered  vest, 
As  was  his  wont,  unasked,  unsought, 
Gave  to  the  winds  his  muttered  thought. 


354  ALEXANDER      AND      DIOGENES. 

Naming  no  name  of  friend  or  foe, 
And  reckless  if  they  heard  or  no. 

"  AY.  go  thy  way.  thou  painted  thing, 
Puppet,  which  mortals  call  a  king, 
Adorning  thee  with  idle  gems, 
With  drapery  and  diadems, 
And  scarcely  guessing,  that  beneath 
The  purple  robe  and  laurel  wreath, 
There's  nothing  but  the  common  slime 
Of  human  clay  and  human  crime ! — 
My  rags  are  not  so  rich, — but  they 
Will  serve  as  well  to  cloak  decay. 

"  And  ever  round  thy  jeweled  brow 
False  slaves  and  falser  friends  will  bow  ; 
And  Flattery, — as  varnish  flings 
A  baseness  on  the  brightest  things, — 
Wrill  make  the  monarch's  deeds  appear 
All  worthless  to  the  monarch's  ear, 
Till  thou  wilt  turn  and  think  that  Fame, 
So  vilely  drest  is  worse  than  shame  ! — 
The  gods  be  thanked  for  all  their  mercies, 
Diogenes  hears  naught  but  curses ! 

"  And  thou  wilt  banquet ! — air  and  sea 
Will  render  up  their  hoards  for  thee ; 
And  golden  cups  for  thee  will  hold 
Rich  nectar,  richer  than  the  gold.    ' 
The  cunning  caterer  still  must  share 
The  dainties  which  hi-  >ils  prepare: 


A0.il,  A.  A  JN  DE  U      AND     DIOGENES.  355 

ThG  page's  lip  must  taste  the  wine 
Before  he  fills  the  cup  for  thine  ! — • 
Wilt  feast  \vith  me  on  Hecate's  cheer? 
I  dread  no  royal  hemlock  here ! 

"And  night  will  come;  and  thou  wilt  lie 
Beneath  a  purple  canopy, 
With  lutes  to  lull  thee,  flowers  to  shed 
Their  feverish  fragrance  round  thy  bed, 
A  princess  to  unclasp  thy  crest. — 
A  Spartan  spear  to  guard  thy  rest  — 
Dream,  happy  one  ! — thy  dreams  will  be 
Of  danger  and  of  perfidy  ; — 
The  Persian  lance, — the  Carian  club  ! — 
I  shall  sleep  sounder  in  my  tub ! 

"  And  thou  wilt  pass  away,  and  have 
A  marole  mountain  o'er  thy  grave, 
With  pillars  tall,  and  chambers  vast, 
Fit  palace  for  the  worm's  repast ! — 
I  too  shall  perish  ! — let  them  call 
The  vulture  to  my  funeral; 
The  Cynic's  staff,  the  Cynic's  den, 
Are  all  he  leaves  his  fellow  men, — 
Heedless  how  this  corruption  fares, — 
Yea,  heedless  though  it  mix  with  theirs  !" 

(1826.) 


ARMINIUS.* 

"  Cernebatur    contra     minitabundus     Arminius,    pnvli unique 
denuntians." — Tacit.  Annal.  ii.  10. 


BACK, — back! — he  fears  not  forming  flood 

Who  fears  not  steel-clad  line  ! 
No  offspring  this  of  German  blood, — 

Xo  brother  thou  of  mine  ; 
Some  bastard  spawn  of  menial  birth, — 

Some  bound  and  bartered  slave  : 
Back, — back  ! — for  thee  our  native  earth 

Would  be  a  foreign  grave  ! 

n. 

Away !  be  mingled  with  the  rest 

Of  that  thy  chosen  tribe  ; 
And  do  the  tyrant's  high  behest, 

And  earn  the  robber's  bribe  ; 
And  win  the  chain  to  gird  the  neck, 

The  gems  to  hide  the  hilt, 

*  Arminius,  the  assertor  of  the  liberties  of  Germany,  had  a 
brother  who  had  been  brought  up  and  had  risen  to  high  rank  hi 
the  Roman  service.  Upon  one  occasion,  when  the  two  armies 
were  separated  by  the  river  Weser,  the  brothers,  after  a  colloquy 
which  ended  in  reciprocal  reproaches,  were  scarcely  prevented, 
says  Tacitus,  from  rushing  into  the  stream  and  engaging  hand 
to  hand. 


AKMINIUS.  357 

And  blazon  honor's  hapless  wreck 
With  all  the  gauds  of  guilt. 

in. 

And  would'st  thou  have  me  share  the  prey  ? 

By  all  that  I  have  done, 
By  Varus'  bones,  which  day  by  day 

Are  whitening  in  the  sun, — 
The  legion's  shattered  panoply, 

The  eagle's  broken  wing, 
I  would  not  be,  for  earth  and  sky, 

So  loathed  and  scorned  a  thing  ! 

IV. 

Ho  !  bring  me  here  the  wizard,  boy, 

Of  most  surpassing  skill, 
To  agonize,  and  not  destroy, 

To  palsy,  and  not  kill : 
If  there  be  truth  in  that  dread  art, 

In  song,  and  spell,  and  charm, 
ISTow  let  them  torture  the  base  heart, 

And  wither  the  false  arm  ! 

v. 

I  curse  him  by  our  country's  gods, 

The  terrible,  the  dark, 
The  scatterers  of  the  Roman  rods, 

The  quellers  of  the  bark  ! 
They  fill  a  cup  with  bitter  woe, 

They  fill  it  to  the  brim : 


35S  ARM  INI  US. 

Where  shades  of  warriors  feast  be7ow, 
That  cup  shall  be  for  him  ! 

VI. 

I  curse  him  by  the  gifts  our  land 
Hath  o\ved  to  him  and  Rome — 

The  riving  axe  and  burning  brand, 
Rent  forests,  blazing  home; — 

0  may  he  shudder  at  the  thought, 
Who  triumphs  in  the  sight ; 

And  be  his  waking  terrors  wrought 
Into  fierce  dreams  by  night. 

VII. 

1  curse  him  by  the  hearts  that  sigh 
In  cavern,  grove,  and  glen, — 

The  sobs  of  orphaned  infancy, 

The  tears  of  aged  men  ; — 
When  swords  are  out,  and  spear  and  dart 

Leave  little  space  for  prayer, 
No  fetter  on  man's  arm  and  heart 

Hangs  half  so  heavy  there. 

VIII. 

Oh,  misery,  that  such  a  vow 

On  such  a  head  should  be  ! 
Why  comes  he  not,  my  brother,  now, 

To  fight  or  fall  with  me, — 
To  be  my  mate  in  banquet  bowl, 

My  guard  in  battle  throng, 


ARM  INI  US.  359 

And  worthy  of  his  father's  soul 
And  of  his  country's  song? 

IX. 

But  it  is  past : — where  heroes  press 

And  spoilers  bend  the  knee, 
Arminius  is  not  brotherless, — 

His  brethren  are  the  free  ! 
They  come  around;  one  hour,  and  light 

Will  fade  from  turf  and  tide ; 
Then  onward,  onward  to  the  fight, 

With  darkness  for  our  guide ! 

x. 

To-night,  to-night, — when  we  shall  meet 

In  combat  face  to  face, — 
There  only  would  Arminius  greet 

The  renegade's  embrace ; 
The  canker  of  Rome's  guilt  shall  be 

Upon  his  Roman  name, 
And  as  he  lives  in  slavery, 

So  shall  he  die  in  shame ! 


(1827.) 


REMEMBER    ME. 

IN  Seville,  when  the  feast  was  long, 
And  lips  and  lutes  grew  free, 

At  Inez'  feet,  amid  the  throng, 
A  masquer  bent  his  knee  ; 

And  still  the  burden  of  his  song 
Was,  "  Sweet,  remember  me ! 

"  Remember  me  in  shine  and  shower, 

In  sorrow  and  in  glee  ; 
When  summer  breathes  upon  the  flower, 

When  winter  blasts  the  tree, 
When  there  are  dances  in  the  bower 

Or  sails  upon  the  sea. 

"  Remember  me  beneath  far  skies, 

On  foreign  lawn  or  lea ; 
When  others  worship  those  wild  eyes 

Which  I  no  more  may  see, 
When  others  wake  the  melodies 

Of  which  I  mar  the  key. 

"Remember  me!  my  heart  will  claim 
No  love,  no  trust  from  thee ; 


REMEMBER     ME.  361 

Remember  me,  though  doubt  and  blame 

Linked  with  the  record  be ; 
Remember  me, — with  scorn  or  shame, — 

But  yet,  remember  me  !" 


(1827.) 

16 


TO   THE   REV.  DERWENT  COLERIDGE, 

ON    HIS    MARRIAGE. 

WHO  must  the  beauteous  Lady  be 

That  wins  that  heart  of  thine? 
In  a  dream,  methinks,  she  comes  to  me, 

Half  mortal,  half  divine, 
Robed  in  a  fine  and  fairy  dress 

From  Fancy's  richest  store, — 
A  more  becoming  garb,  I  guess, 

Than  e'er  man's  mistress  wore ! 
With  a  step  that  glides  o'er  turf  and  stone 

As  light  as  the  morning  beams, 
And  a  voice  whose  every  whispered  tone 

Calls  up  a  host  of  dreams  ; 
And  a  form  which  you  might  safely  swear 

Young  Nature  taught  to  dance, 
And  dazzling  brow  and  floating  hair 

Which  are  themselves  romance  ; 
And  eyes  more  eloquently  bright 

Than  ether's  brightest  star, 
With  much  of  genius  in  their  light, 

And  more  of  fondness  for  ; 
And  an  untainted  love  of  earth 

And  all  earth's  lovely  things, 


TO    THE    REV.    DERWENT    COLERIDGE.         363 

And  smiles  and  tears,  whose  grief  and  mirth 

Flow  forth  from  kindred  springs  ; 
And  a  calm  heart,  so  wholly  given 

To  him  whose  love  it  wakes, 
That  through  all  storms  of  Fate  and  Heaven 

It  bends  with  his — or  breaks. 

Such  must  the  beauteous  Lady  be 

That  wins  that  heart  of  thine, 
And  is  to  thy  fair  destiny 

What  none  may  be  to  mine ! 


(1827.) 


FROM  GOETHE. 

UNHEEDED  toils,  unvalued  cares, 

And  slighted  sighs,  and  baffled  prayers, 

Hate,  cruelty,  caprice,  disdain, — 
Are  these  thy  sad  harp's  saddest  theme, 
Thy  morning  thought,  thy  midnight  dream  ? 

Away  ! — it  is  a  weary  lot 

To  waste  love's  songs  where  love  is  not ; 

But  do  not  thou,  fond  boy,  complain ; 
Alas  !  to  some  'tis  bitterer  far 
To  love,  and  feel  how  loved  they  are ! 

(JUNE  12,  1828.) 


MEMORY. 

Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  recordarsi  del  tempo  felice, 
Nella  miseria. 

Danto. 


STAND  on  a  funeral  mound, 

Far,  far  from  all  that  love  thee : 
With  a  barren  heath  around, 

And  a  cypress  bower  above  thee : 
And  think,  while  the  sad  wind  frets, 

And  the  night  in  cold  gloom  closes, 
Of  spring,  and  spring's  sweet  violets, 

Of  summer,  and  summer's  roses. 

ii. 

Sleep  where  the  thunders  fly 

Across  the  tossing  billow ; 
Thy  canopy  the  sky, 

And  the  lonely  deck  thy  pillow  • 
And  dream,  while  the  chill  sea-foam 

In  mockery  dashes  o'er  thee, 
Of  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  the  quiet  home, 

And  the  kiss  of  her  that  bore  thee. 


366  MEMORY. 

III. 

Watch  in  the  deepest  cell 

Of  the  foeman's  dungeon  tower, 
Till  hope's  most  cherished  spell 

Has  lost  its  cheering  power  ; 
And  sing,  while  the  galling  chain 

On  every  stiff  limb  freezes, 
Of  the  huntsman  hurrying  o'er  the  plain, 

Of  the  breath  of  the  mountain  breezes. 


Talk  of  the  minstrel's  lute, 

The  warrior's  high  endeavor, 
When  the  honeyed  lips  are  mute. 

And  the  strong  arm  crushed  for  ever  ; 
Look  back  to  the  summer  sun, 

From  the  mist  of  dark  December ; 
Then  say  to  the  broken-hearted  one, 

"  'Tis  pleasant  to  remember !" 

(APRIL  11,  1829.) 


FUIMUS ! 

Go  to  the  once  loved  bowers ; 
Wreathe  blushing  roses  for  the  lady's  hair: 

Winter  has  been  upon  the  leaves  and  flowers,— 
They  were ! 

Look  for  the  domes  of  kings ; 
Lo,  the  owl's  fortress,  or  the  tiger's  lair ! 

Oblivion  sits  beside  them;  mockery  sings 
They  were! 

Waken  the  minstrel's  lute  ; 
Bid  the  smooth  pleader  charm  the  listening  air : 

The  chords  are  broken,  and  the  lips  are  mute  * — 
They  were ! 

Visit  the  great  and  brave ; 
Worship  the  witcheries  of  the  bright  and  fair. 
Is  not  thy  foot  upon  a  new-made  grave? — 
They  were ! 

Speak  to  thine  own  heart ;  prove 
The  secrets  of  thy  nature.     What  is  there  ? 

Wild   hopes,  warm  fancies,  fervent   faith,  fond 
love, — 

They  were ! 


368 


F  U  I  M  U  S . 


We  too,  we  too  must  fall ; 
A  few  brief  years  to  labor  and  to  bear  ; — 

Then  comes  the  sexton,  and  the  old  trite  tale, 

"  We  were !" 
(MAY  21,  1829.) 


LINES 

SENT  IN  THANKS  FOR  A  BOTTLE  OF  VERY  FINE  OLD 
BRANDY.       WRITTEN    FOR  LADY  C . 

SPIRITS  there  were,  in  olden  time, 

Which  wrought  all  sorts  of  wondrous  things 
(As  we  are  told  in  prose  and  ryhme) 

With  wands  and  potions,  lamps  and  rings ; 
I  know  not,  Lady  fair, — do  you  ? — 
Whether  those  tales  be  false  or  true. 

But  in  our  day — our  dismal  day 
Of  sadder  song  and  soberer  mirth, 

If  any  spirits  ever  play 

Upon  the  faded  fields  of  earth, 

Whose  magic,  Lady  fair,  can  fling 

O'er  winter's  frosts  the  flowers  of  spring, — 

If  any  spirits  haunt  our  Isle 

Whose  power  can  make  old  age  look  gay, 
Revive  the  tone,  relume  the  smile, 

And  chase  three  score  of  years  away, — 
Such  spirits,  Lady  fair,  must  be 
Like  those  your  kindness  sends  to  me ! 

(MAY  2.  1829.) 
16* 


CHILDHOOD  A1STD  HIS  VISITORS. 

Once  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 

Was  kissing  up  the  April  showers, 
I  saw  fair  CHILDHOOD  hard  at  play 

Upon  a  bank  of  blushing  flowers  ; 
Happy, — lie  knew  not  whence   or  how  ; 

And  smiling, — who  could  choose  but  love  him  ? 
For  not  more  glad  than  Childhood's  brow 

Was  the  blue  heaven  that  beamed  above  him. 

Old  TIME,  in  most  appalling  wrath, 

That  valley's  green  repose  invaded ; 
The  brooks  grew  dry  upon  his  path, 

The  birds  were  mute,  the  lilies  faded. 
But  TIME  so  swiftly  winged  his  flight, 

In  haste  a  Grecian  tomb  to  batter, 
That  Childhood  watched  his  paper  kite 

And  knew  just  nothing  of  the  matter. 

With  curling  lip,  and  glancing  eye, 
GUILT  gazed  upon  the  scene  a  minute, 

But  CHILDHOOD'S  glance  of  purity 
Hud  such  a  ho1}'  spell  within  it, 


CHILDHOOD    AND    HIS    VISITORS.  37] 

That  the  dark  demon  to  the  air 

Spread  forth  again  his  baffled  pinion, 

And  hid  his  envy  and  despair, 

Self-tortured,  in  his  own  dominion. 

Then  stepped  a  gloomy  phantom  up, 

Pale,  cypress-crowned,  Night's  awful  daughter, 
And  proffered  him  a  fearful  cup, 

Full  to  the  brim  of  bitter  water  : 
Poor  CHILDHOOD  bade  her  tell  her  name, 

And  when  the  beldame  muttered  "  Sorrow," 
He  said,  "  Don't  interrupt  my  game 

I'll  taste  it,  if  I  must,  to-morrow." 

The  Muse  of  Pindus  thither  came, 

And  wooed  him  with  the  softest  numbers 
That  ever  scattered  wealth  and  fame 

Upon  a  youthful  poet's  slumbers. 
Though  sweet  the  music  of  the  lay, 

To  CHILDHOOD  it  was  all  a  riddle, 
And  "  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  do  send  away 

That  noisy  woman  with  the  fiddle  !" 

Then  WISDOM  stole  his  bat  and  ball, 

And  taught  him  with  most  sage  endeavor, 
Why  bubbles  rise,  and  acorns  fall, 

And  why  no  toy   may  last  forever  : 
She  talked  of  all  the  wondrous  laws 

Which  Nature's  open  book  discloses, 
And  CHILDHOOD,  ere  she  made  a  pause, 

Was  fast  asleep  among  the  roses. 


372  CHILDHOOD    AXI)    HIS    VISITORS. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on! — Oh!  manhood's  dreams 

Are  all  of  earthly  pain,  or  pleasure, 
Of  Glory's  toils,  Ambition's  schemes, 

Of  cherished  love,  or  hoarded  treasure! 
But  to  the  couch  where  CHILDHOOD  lies 

A  more  delicious  trance  is  giver, 
Lit  up  by  rays  from  Seraph-eyes, 

And  glimpses  of  remembered  heaven. 

(1829.) 


CHILDHOOD'S  CRITICISM. 

TO  MISS   E S ,  ON  HER  REPEATING    THE  PRE- 

*  CEDING  LINES. 

"  You've  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp — 
— er,  hold  your  head  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 
And  then  you're  sure  to  take." 

Rejected  Addresses. 


A  POET  o'er  his  tea  and  toast 

Composed  a  page  of  verse  last  winter, 
Transcribed  it  on  the  best  Bath  post, 

And  sent  the  treasure  to  a  printer. 
He  thought  it  an  enchanting  thing ; 

And,  fancying  no  one  else  could  doubt  it, 
Went  out,  as  happy  as  a  king, 

To  hear  what  people  said  about  it. 

n. 

Queen  Fame  was  driving  out  that  day  ; 

And,  though  she  scarcely  seemed  to  know  him, 
He  bustled  up,  and  tried  to  say 

Something  about  his  little  poem  ; 
But  ere  from  his  unhappy  lip 

Three  timid  trembling  words  could  falter, 
The  goddess  cracked  her  noisy  whip, 

And  went  to  call  upon  Sir  Walter  I 


374  CHILDHOOD'S    CRITICISM. 

in. 

Old  Criticism,  whose  glance  observed 

The  minstrel's  blushes  and  confusion, 
Came  up  and  told  him  he  deserved 

The  rack  at  least  for  his  intrusion  : 
The  poor  youth  stared  and  strove  to  speak ; 

His  tyrant  laughed  to  see  him  wincing, 
And  grumbled  out  a  line  of  Greek, 

Which  Dulness  said  was  quite  convincing. 

TV. 

Then  stepped  a  gaunt  and  wrinkled  witch, 

Hight  Avarice,  from  her  filthy  hovel ; 
And  "  Rhyme,"  quoth  she,  "  wont  make  you  rich ; 

Go  home,  good  youth,  and  write  a  novel ! 
Cut  up  the  follies  of  the  age ; 

Sauce  them  with  puns  and  disquisitions ; 
Let  Colburn  cook  your  title-page, 

And  I'll  insure  you  six  editions." 

v. 

Ambition  met  him  next ; — he  sighed 

To  see  those  once-loved  wreaths  of  laurel, 
And  crept  into  a  bower  to  hide, 

For  he  and  she  had  had  a  quarrel. 
The  goddess  of  the  cumbrous  crown 

Called  after  him,  in  tones  of  pity, 
"My  son,  you've  dropped  your  wig  and  gown! 

And,  bless  me,  how  you've  torn  your  Chitty !' 


CHILDHOOD'S    CRITICISM.  37 o 

VI. 

'Twas  all  unheeded  or  unheard, 

For  now  he  knocked  at  Beauty's  portal ; 
One  word  from  her,  one  golden  word, 

He  knew,  would  make  bis  lays  immortal. 
Alas  !  he  elbowed  through  a  throng 

Of  danglers,  dancers,  catgut  scrapers, 
And  found  her  twisting  up  his  song 

Into  the  sweetest  candle-papers. 

VII. 

He  turned  away  with  sullen  looks 

From  Beauty,  and  from  Beauty's  scorning. 
"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  I'll  burn  my  books  ; 

I'll  break  my  barpstrings  in  the  morning." — 
When  lo,  a  laughing  Fay  drew  near ; 

And  with  soft  voice,  more  soft  than  Circe's, 
She  whispered  in  the  poet's  ear 

The  sounds  the  poet  loved — bis  verses ! 

VIII. 

He  looked,  and  listened  ;  and  it  seemed 

In  Childhood's  lips  the  lines  grew  sweeter : 
Good  lack !  till  now  he  had  not  dreamed 

How  bright  the  thought,  how  smooth  the  metre. 
Ere  the  last  stanza  was  begun, 

He  managed  all  his  wrath  to  smother ; 
And  when  the  little  Nymph  bad  done, 

Said  "  Thank  you,  Love  ; — I'll  write  another!" 

(OCTOBER  1.  1829.) 


BEAUTY  AND  HER  VISITORS. 


I  LOOKED  for  Beauty : — on  a  throne, 

A  dazzling  throne  of  light,  I  found  her  ; 
And  Music  poured  its  softest  tone 

And  flowers  their  sweetest  breath  around  her. 
A  score  or  two  of  idle  gods, 

Some  dressed  as  peers,  and  some  as  peasants, 
Were  watching  all  her  smiles  and  nods, 

And  making  compliments  and  presents. 

li. 

And  first  young  Love,  the  rosy  boy, 

Exhibited  his  bow  and  arrows, 
And  gave  her  many  a  pretty  toy, 

Torches,  and  bleeding  hearts,  and  sparrows : 
She  told  him,  as  he  passed,  she  knew 

Her  court  would  scarcely  do  without  him ; 
But  yet — she  hoped  they  were  not  true — 

There  were  some  awkward  tales  about  him. 

in. 

Wealth  deemed  that  magic  had  no  charm 
More  mighty  than  the  gifts  he  brought  her, 

And  linked  around  her  radiant  arm 
Bright  diamonds  of  the  purest  water: 


BEAUTY      AND      HER     VISITORS.  37' 

The  Goddess,  with  a  scornful  touch. 
Unclasped  the  gaudy,  galling  fetter ; 

And  said, — she  thanked  him  very  much, — 
She  liked  a  wreath  of  roses  better. 

IV. 

Then  Genius  snatched  his  golden  lute, 

And  told  a  tale  of  love  and  glory  : 
The  crowd  around  were  hushed  and  mute 

To  hear  so  sad  and  sweet  a  story ; 
And  Beauty  marked  the  minstrel's  cheek, 

So  very  pale — no  bust  was  paler; 
Vowed  she  could  listen  for  a  week  ; 

But  really — he  should  change  his  tailor  ! 

v. 

As  died  the  echo  of  the  strings, 

A  shadowy  Phantom  kneeled  before  her, 
Looked  all  unutterable  things, 

And  swore,  to  see  was  to  adore  her ; 
He  called  her  veil  a  cruel  cloud, 

Her  cheek  a  rose,  her  srnile  a  battery  : 
She  fancied  it  was  Wit  that  bowed; — 

I'm  almost  certain  it  was  Flattery. 

VI. 

There  was  a  beldame  finding  fault 
With  every  person's  every  feature  ; 

And  by  the  sneer,  and  by  the  halt, 
I  knew  at  once  the  odious  creature : 


378  BEAUTY      AND      HER     VISITORS. 

"Yon  see,"  quoth  "Envy,  "I  am  come 
To  bow — as  is  my  bounden  duty  ; — 

They  tell  me  Beauty  is  at  home ; — 
Impossible !  that  cartt  be  Beauty  !" 

VII. 

I  heard  a  murmur  far  and  wide 

Of  "  Lord  !  how  quick  the  dotard  passes  !" 
As  Time  threw  down  at  Beauty's  side 

The  prettiest  of  his  clocks  and  glasses  ; 
But  it  was  noticed  in  the  throng 

How  Beauty  marred  the  maker's  cunning ; 
For  when  she  talked,  the  hands  went  wrong ; 

And  when  she  smiled,  the  sands  stopped  running. 

VIII. 

Death,  in  a  doctor's  wig  and  gown, 

Came,  arm  in  arm  with  Lethe,  thither, 
And  crowned  her  with  a  withered  crown, 

And  hinted,  Beauty  too  must  wither ! 
"  Avaunt !"  ?he  cried — "  how  came  he  here ! 

The  frightful  fiend  !  he's  my  abhorrence!" 
I  went  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"He  shall  not  hurt  you ! — sit  to  Lawrence!" 
(1829.) 


HOW  AM  I  LIKE  HER? 


•'  You  are  very  like  her.v — Jfiss  If E . 

"Eesemblances  begin  to  strike 
In  things  exceedingly  unlike." — MS.  Poem. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  no  trace 

Of  pain,  of  passion,  or  of  aught 
That  stin gs  or  stains,  is  on  her  face : — 

Mild  eyes,  clear  forehead, — ne'er  was  wrought 
A  fitter,  fairer  dwelling-place 

For  tranquil  joy  and  holy  thought. 

Plow  am  I  like  her  ? — for  the  fawn 
Not  lighter  bounds  o'er  rock  and  rill, 

Than  she,  beneath  the  intruding  dawn 
Threading,  all  mirth,  our  gay  quadrille  ; 

Or  tripping  o'er  our  level  lawn 
To  those  she  loves  upon  the  hill. 

How  am  I  like  her? — for  the  ear 

Thrills  with  her  voice.     Its  breezy  tone 

Goes  forth,  as  eloquently  clear 

As  are  the  lutes  at  Heaven's  high  throne ; 

And  makes  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear 
As  pure  and  peaceful  as  her  own. 


380  HOW     AM     I     LIKE      TIER? 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  her  ways 
Are  full  of  bliss.     She  never  knew 

Stern  avarice,  nor  the  thirst  of  praise 
Insatiable  ; — Love  never  threw 

Upon  her  calm  and  sunny  days 
The  venom  of  his  deadly  dew. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  her  arts 

Are  blessing.     Sorrow  owns  her  thrall ; 

She  dries  the  tear-drop  as  it  starts, 
And  checks  the  murmurs  as  they  fall ; 

She  is  the  day-star  of  our  hearts, 
Consoling,  guiding,  gladdening  all. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  she  steals 

All  sympathies.     Glad  Childhood's  play 

Is  left  for  her;  and  wild  Youth  kneels 
Obedient  to  her  gentle  sway  ; 

And  Age  beholds  her  smile,  and  feels 
December  brightening  into  May. 

How  arn  I  like  her  ? — The  rude  fil 
ls  little  like  the  sweet  rose-tree  : — 

Unless,  perchance,  fair  flatterer, 
In  this  your  fabled  likeness  be, — 

That  all  who  are  most  dear  to  her 
Are  apt  to  be  most  dear  to  me. 

(OCTOBER  10,  1829.) 


MY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

E  voi  ridete  ? — Certo  ridiamo. 

Cosi  fan  tutfe. 

LAUGH  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair, 

And  every  month  is  May  ; 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes ; 
The  voice  whose  every  word  is  song, 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs  ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  chase  their  rest  away  ; 
To-morrow,  you'll  be  shedding  tears,— 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Oh  yes ;  if  any  truth  is  found 
In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, — 

If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound, 
An  1  love  an  idle  dream, — 


382  MY      LITTLE     COUSINS. 

if  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 
Too  soon  on  life's  long  way, 

At  least  he'll  run  with  you  a  league, — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart  •, 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight, 

And  dearer  to  the  heart ; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept, 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy  ; 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept,— 

I  am  no  more  a  boy  ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  't  is  true, 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray  ; 
But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you  ; — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  { 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face, 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now  ; 
But  never  mind  how  I  behave, 

Don't  interrupt  your  play, 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day. 

(MARCH  8,  1830.) 


ON  AN  INFANT  NEPHEW. 

THE  little  one — the  little  one! 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  and  strange, 
That  the  silent  seasons  as  they  rim 

Should  work  such  mighty  change ! 
The  lips  that  cannot  lisp  my  name 

May  rule  the  stern  debate ; 
And  the  hands  too  weak  for  childhood's  game 

Sport  with  the  falchion's  weight ! 

The  beauteous  one — the  beauteous  one  ! 

In  the  wide  world,  I  wis, 
There's  many  a  beauteous  thing,  but  none 

Of  beauty  like  to  this. 
In  youth  and  age,  earth's  sinful  leaven 

Where'er  we  go  we  trace  ; 
But  there  is  only  peace  and  Heaven 

In  the  smile  of  an  infant's  face. 

The  merry  one — the  merry  one  ! 

He  is  all  wit  and  whim ; 
Our  life  has  naught  but  a  cloudless  sun 

And  a  waveless  sea  for  him. 
He  knows  not  sorrow's  thorny  path, 

Nor  pleasure's  flowery  snare, 


384  ON     AN     INFANT     NEPHEW. 

Nor  heeds  the  bitter  glance  of  wrath, 
Nor  the  haggard  cheek  of  care. 

The  cherished  one — the  cherished  one  ! 

A  mystery  is  the  love 
Of  parents  for  their  infant  son  ; 

It  cometh  from  above. 
He  is  all  music  to  their  ear, 

All  glory  to  their  sight, 
By  day  he  is  their  hope  and  fear, 

Their  thought  and  dream  by  night. 

The  guiltless  one — the  guiltless  one  ! 

How  blest  the  earth  would  be, 
If  her  best  and  holiest  men  had  done 

No  more  of  wrong  than  he  ! 
If  the  blot  of  sin  and  the  doom  of  pain 

On  the  baby's  brow  be  set, — 
O  brother ! — who  shall  see  the  stain 

Or  read  the  sentence  yet  ? 

(1830.) 


LINES. 

THE  hues  of  life  are  fading  from  her  wan  and  wasted 

cheek ; 
Her  voice  is  as  an  infant's  voice,  a  whisper  faint  and 

weak  ; 
But  still  we  look  and  listen,  for  our  hearts  have  never 

known 
Such  sweetness  in  a  countenance,  such  softness  in  a 

tone. 

She  is  passing  from  the  world,  from  the  weary  world 

away, 
From  the  sorrows  that  afflict  us,  from  the  pleasures 

that  betray ; 
And  another  Home — a  fairer  Home — is  opened  to  her 

sight, 
Where  the  summer  shines  forever,  where  the  roses 

know  no  blight. 

I  know  that  we  shall  miss  her,  in  the  evening  and  the 

dawn, 
In  our  converse  round  the  fireside,  in  our  walk  upon 

the  lawn ; 
I  know  that  we  shall  miss  her,  in  our  mirth  and  in  our 

care, 
In  the  breaking  of  our  bread,  and  in  the  breathing  of 

our  prayer. 


386  LINES. 

And  not  the  ring  or  brooch  alone,  but  whatsoe'er  we 

see, 
The  river  and  the  green  hill-side,  the  cottage  and  the 

tree, 
Will  bring  her  image  back  to  us ;   there  is  not  in  our 

heart 
A  single  hope — a  single  fear — in  which  she  has  no 

part. 

Yet  weep  not,  if  you  love  her,  that  her  tedious  toil  is 

done; 
O  weep  not,  if  you  love  her,  that  her  holy  rest  is 

won ! 
There  should  be  gladness  in  your  thought  and  smiles 

upon  your  brow, 
For  will  she  not  be  happy  then  ? — is  she  not  happy 

now  ? 

And  we  will  learn  to  talk  of  her ; — and  after  many 
years 

The  tears  which  we  shall  shed  for  her  will  not  be 
bitter  tears, 

When  we  shall  tell  each  other,  with  a  fond  and  thank 
ful  pride, 

In  what  purity  she  lived,  and  in  what  peacefulness  she 

died. 
(MAY  26,  1830.) 


A  FRAGMENT. 

HAST  thou  e'er  watched  and  wept  beside  the  bed 
On  which  some  dying  friend  reposed  his  head, — 
Some  loved  and  reverenced  friend,  from  whom  thy 

youth 

Learned  its  first  dream  of  happiness  and  truth  ? 
When  those  fast-fading  eyes  were  closed  on  earth, 
On  its  vain  mourning,  and  its  vainer  mirth, 
When  the  strong  spirit  in  the  painful  strife 
Already  seemed  to  live  its  after-life, 
Viewing  the  homes  which  are  prepared  above 
With  firmer  knowledge  and  with  fonder  love, — 
Oh  then  with  what  sad  reverence  didst  thou  dwell 
On  every  word  that  from  those  wan  lips  fell ! 
How  didst  thou  consecrate  with  grateful  care 
The  half-told  message  and  the  half-breathed  prayer ! 
And,  when  the  soul  was  trembling  to  depart, 
How  was  the  look  engraven  on  thy  heart 
Which  turned  to  seek  thee,  ere  the  spirit  pass'd, 
And  smiled  a  blessing  on  thee  at  the  last ! 

(1830.) 


HOPE  AND  LOVE. 


ONE  day,  through  fancy's  telescope, 

Which  is  my  richest  treasure, 
[  saw,  dear  Susan,  Love  and  Hope 

Set  out  in  search  of  Pleasure  : 
All  mirth  and  smiles  I  saw  them  go ; 

Each  was  the  other's  banker  ; 
For  Hope  took  up  her  brother's  bow, 

And  Love,  his  sister's  anchor. 

They  rambled  on  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

They  passed  by  cot  and  tower ; 
Through  summer's  glow  and  winter's  chill, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  shower  : 
But  what  did  those  fond  playmates  care 

Fer  climate,  or  for  weather  ? 
All  scenes  to  them  were  bright  and  fair, 

On  which  they  gazed  together. 

Sometimes  they  turned  aside  to  bless 
Some  Muse  and  her  wild  numbers, 

Or  breathe  a  dream  of  holiness 
On  Beauty's  quiet  slumbers  ; 


HOPE      AND      LOVE. 

"Fly  on,"  said  Wisdom,  with  cold  sneers; 

"  I  teach  my  friends  to  doubt  you ;" 
"  Come  back,"  said  Age,  with  bitter  tears. 

"  My  heart  is  cold  without  you/' 

When  Poverty  beset  their  path, 

And  threatened  to  divide  them. 
They  coaxed  away  the  beldame's  wrath 

Ere  she  had  breath  to  chide  them, 
By  vowing  all  her  rags  were  silk, 

And  all  her  bitters,  honey, 
And  showing  taste  for  bread  and  milk, 

And  utter  scorn  of  money. 

They  met  stern  Danger  in  their  way, 

Upon  a  ruin  seated  ; 
Before  him  kings  had  quaked  that  day, 

And  armies  had  retreated  : 
But  he  was  robed  in  such  a  cloud, 

As  Love  and  Hope  came  near  him, 
That  though  he  thundered  long  and  loud, 

They  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

A  gray-beard  joined  them,  Time  by  name 

And  Love  was  nearly  crazy, 
To  find  that  he  was  very  lame, 

And  also  very  lazy  : 
Hope,  as  he  listened  to  her  tale, 

Tied  wings  upon  his  jacket; 
And  then  they  far  outran  the  mail, 

And  far  outsailed  the  packet. 


I J  HOPE     AND     LOVE. 

And  so,  when  they  had  safely  passed 

O'er  many  a  land  and  billow, 
Before  a  grave  they  stopped  at  last, 

Beneath  a  weeping  willow  : 
The  moon  upon  the  humble  mound 

Her  softest  light  was  flinging  ; 
And  from  the  thickets  all  around 

Sad  nightingales  were  singing. 

"  I  leave  you  here,"  quoth  Father  Time, 

As  hoarse  as  any  raven  ; 
And  love  kneeled  down  to  spell  the  rhyme 

Upon  the  rude  stone  graven  : 
But  Hope  looked  onward,  calmly  brave ; 

And  whispered,  "  Dearest  brother, 
We're  parted  on  this  side  the  grave,— 

We'll  meet  upon  the  other." 

(1830.) 


SELWORTHY. 


WRITTEN     UNDER     A      SKETCH      OF      SIR      THOMAS     AC- 
LAND'S    COTTAGES  FOR    THE    POOR. 

I. 

A  GENTLE  Muse  was  hovering  o'er 

The  wide,  wide  world,  and  looking  long 

For  a  pleasant  spot  where  a  Muse  might  pour 
To  the  wood  or  the  wave  her  liquid  song  ; 

And  "  Who,"  said  she,  "  of  the  kind  and  free — 

Who  will  open  his  gate  for  me  ?" 

II. 

"  Come  hither,"  said  Wealth,  "  to  my  crowded  mart, 
Where  splendor  dazzles  the  gazer's  eye, 

Where  the  sails  approach  and  the  sails  depart 
With  every  breath  of  the  summer  sky ;" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  she  ;  "  by  the  shore  of  the  sea 

Wealth  has  no  room  in  his  store  for  me !" 

in. 

"  Come  hither,"  said  War,  "  to  my  moated  tower  ; 

Danger  and  Death  have  walked  tho  plain  ; 
But  the  arrowy  sleet  of  the  iron  shower 

Beats  on  these  stubborn  walls  in  vain  ;" 


392  SEL  WORTHY. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  she, — "  there  is  blood  on  the  key ; 
War  shall  not  open  a  lock  for  me  !" 

IV. 

"  Come  hither,"  said  Love,  "  to  my  rosy  dell, 
Where  nothing  of  grief  or  care  has  birth  ; 

Rest  in  my  bower,  where  sweet  dreams  dwell, 
Making  a  Heaven — a  Ileaven  of  earth." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  she;  "  at  this  trysting-tree 

Love  is  too  happy  to  think  of  me !" 


And  she  lifted  at  last  the  humble  latch 
And  entered  in  at  a  lowly  door  ; 

For  Charity  there  had  spread  the  thatch 
O'er  the  peaceful  roof  of  the  sick  and  poor. 

And  "  Here,"  said  she  "  iny  rest  shall  be  ; 

Here  is  a  home  and  a  theme  for  me." 
(AUGUST  7,  1830.) 


CASSANDRA. 

evw,  (rreVto  ere,  Siacra.  KOL  TpiTrAd  Sopb? 

irpb?  a\Kr)v  /cat  SiapTraya?  66/xu>i/ 
Kal  nvp  evavyd^ovfTav  atcrrcoT^pioi'. 

LYCOPHRON,  Co88(tndro,,  C9. 

"  THEY  hurried  to  the  feast, 

The  warrior  and  the  priest, 
And  the  gay  maiden  with  her  jewelled  brow  ; 

The  minstrel's  harp  and  voice 

Said  '  Triumph  and  rejoice  !' 
One  only  mourned  ! — many  are  mourning  now  ! 

"  '  Peace  !  startle  not  the  light 

With  the  wild  dreams  of  night ;' — 

So  spake  the  Princes  in  their  pride  and  joy, 
When  I  in  their  dull  ears 
Shrieked  forth  my  tale  of  tears, 

'  Woe  to  the  gorgeous  city,  woe  to  Troy !' — 

"  Ye  watch  the  dun  smoke  rise 

Up  to  the  lurid  skies ; 
Ye  see  the  red  light  nickering  on  the  stream  ; 

Ye  listen  to  the  fall 

Of  gate,  and  tower,  and  wall ; 
Sisters,  the  time  is  come ! — alas,  it  is  no  dream  ! 

*  T     »-jfa 


:"94  CASSANDRA. 

"Through  hall,  and  court,  and  porch, 

Glides  on  the  pitiless  torch  ; 
The  swift  avengers  faint  not  in  their  toil : 

Vain  now  the  matron's  sighs  ; 

Vain  now  the  infant's  cries  ; 
Look,  sisters,  look,  who  leads  them  to  the  spoil  ? 

"  Not  Pyrrhus,  though  his  hand 

Is  on  his  father's  brand ; 
Not  the  fell  framer  of  the  accursed  Steed ; 

Not  Nestor's  hoary  head ; 

Nor  Teucer's  rapid  tread  ; 
Nor  the  fierce  wrath  of  impious  Diomede. 

"  Visions  of  deeper  fear 

To-night  are  warring  here  ; — 
I  know  them,  sisters,  the  mysterious  Three  ; 

Minerva's  lightning  frown, 

And  Juno's  golden  crown, 
And  him  the  mighty  ruler  of  the  sounding  sea. 

"  Through  wailing  and  through  woe, 

Silent  and  stern  they  go  ; — 
So  have  I  ever  seen  them  in  my  trance ! 

Exultingly  they  guide 

Destruction's  fiery  tide, 
And  lift  the  dazzling  shield,  and  poise  the  deadly  lanca 

"  Lo  !   where  the  old  man  stands, 

Folding  his  palsied  hands, 
And  muttering  with  white  lips,  his  querulous  prayer: 


CASSANDRA.  395 

*  Where  is  my  noble  son, 

My  best,  my  bravest  one, — 
Troy's  hope  and  Priam's, — where  is  Hector,  where  V 

"Why  is  thy  falchion  grasped? 

Why  is  thy  helmet  clasped  1 
Fitter  the  fillet  for  such  brow  as  thine  ! 

The  altar  reeks  with  gore ; 

Oh  sisters,  look  no  more  ! 
It  is  our  father's  blood  upon  the  shrine ! 

"  And  ye,  alas  !  must  roam 

Far  from  your  desolate  home, 
Far  from  lost  Ilium,  o'er  the  joyless  wave  ; 

Ye  may  not  from  these  bowers 

Gather  the  trampled  flowers, 
To  wreathe  sad  garlands  for  your  brethren's  grave. 

"Away,  away  !  the  gale 

Stirs  the  white  bosomed  sail  ; 
Hence  ! — look  not  back  to  freedom  or  to  fame  ; 

Labor  must  be  your  doom, 

Night-watchings,  days  of  gloom, 
The  bitter  bread  of  tears,  the  bridal  couch  of  shame. 

"  Even  now  some  Grecian  dame 

Beholds  the  signal  flame, 
And  waits  expectant  the  returning  fleet ; 
'  W7hy  lingers  yet  my  lord  1 

Hath  he  not  sheathed  his  sword — 
Will  he  not  bring  my  handmaid  to  my  feet  ¥ 


396  CASSANDKA. 

"  Me  too  the  dark  Fates  call ; 

Their  sway  is  over  all, 
Captor  and  captive,  prison-house  and  throne ; 

I  tell  of  others'  lot ; 

They  hear  me,  heed  me  not ! 
Hide,  angry  Phoebus,  hide  from  me  mine  own." 

(1830.) 


SIR  NICHOLAS  AT  MARSTON  MOOR. 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas  !  the  clarion's  note  is 

high; 
To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir    Nicholas  !    the  huge   drum 

makes  reply : 

Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched  with  his  gallant  cavaliers, 
And  the  bray  of  Rupert's  trumpets  grows  fainter  o-\ 

our  ears. 
To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas !  White  Guy  is  at 

the  door, 
An-d  the  vulture  whets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of 

Marston  Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Lady  Alice  from  her  brief  and  broken 

prayer, 
And  she  brought  a  silken  standard  down  the  narrow 

turret  stair. 
Oh,  many  were  the  tears  that  those  radiant  eyes  had 

shed, 
As  she  worked  the  bright  word  "  Glory"  in  the  gay 

and  glancing  thread ; 
And  mournful  was  the  smile  that  o'er  those  beauteous 

features  ran, 
As  she  said,  "It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in  the  van." 


398  SIR     NICHOLAS     A  I     M  A  R  S  T  O  N     MOOR. 

"It  shall  flutter,  noble  wench,  where  the  best  and 

boldest  ride, 
Through  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon  and  the  black 

dragoons  of  Pride ; 

The  recreant  soul  of  Fairfax  will  feel  a  sicklier  qualm, 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder  psalm, 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gewgaw  flaunt  bravely  on 

their  wing, 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldiers'  shout,  for  God   and  for 

the  King  !"- 

'Tis  noon  ;  the  ranks  are  broken  along  the  royal  line  ; 
They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  Court,  the  bullies  of 

tho  Rhine  : 
Stout  Langley's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and  Astley's 

helm  is  down, 
And  Rupert  sheathes  his  rapier  with  a  curse  and  with 

a  frown ; 
And  cold  Newcastle  mutters,  as  he  follows  in  the 

flight, 
"The  German  boar  had  better  far  have  supped  in 

York  to-night." 

The  Knight  is  all  alone,  his  steel  cap  cleft  in  twain, 
His  good  buff  jerkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  many  a  gory 

stain  ; 
But  still  he  waves  the  standard,  and  cries,  amid  the 

rout — 
"  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen,  spur  on  and 

ficrht  it  out !" 


SIR     NICHOLAS     AT     MARSTON     MOOR.  399 

And  now  lie  wards  a  Roundhead's  pike,  and  now  he 

hums  a  stave, 
And  here  he  quotes  a  stage-play,  and  there  he  fells  a 

knave. 

Good  speed  to  thee,   Sir  Nicholas!    thou  hast    no 

thought  of  fear ; 
Good  speed  to  thee,  Sir  Nicholas!  but  fearful  odds 

are  here. 
The  traitors  ring  thee  round,  and   with  every  blow 

and  thrust, 
"Down,  down,"  they  cry,  "with  Belial,  down  with 

him  to  the  dust!" 
"  I  would,"    quoth  grim  old   Oliver,  "  that  Belial's 

trusty  sword 
This  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and  for  the 

Lord !" 

The  Lady  Alice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her  bower ; 

The  gray-haired  warden  watches  on  the  castle's  high 
est  tower.— 

"  What  news,  what  news,  old  Anthony  ?" — a  The  field 
is  lost  and  won  ; 

The  ranks  of  war  are  melting  as  the  mists  beneath 
the  sun  ; 

And  a  wounded  man  speeds  hither, — I  am  old  and 
cannot  see, 

Or  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step  my  master's  step  should 
be."— 


400  SIR    NICHOLAS     AT     MARS  TON     MOOR. 

"I  bring  thee  back  the  standard,  from  as  rude  and 

rough  a  fray 
As  e'er   was  proof  of  soldier's  thews,  or  theme  for 

minstrel's  lay. 
Bid  Hubert  fetch  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor  quantum 

™ff. ; 

I'll  make  a  shift  to  dram  it,  ere  I  part  with  boot  and 

buff; 
Though    Guy   through   many   a   gaping    wound    is 

breathing  out  his  life, 
And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond  and 

faithful  wife! 

"  Sweet,  we  will  fill  our  money-bags,  and  freight  a 
ship  for  France, 

And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  realm's  mis 
chance  ; 

Or,  if  the  worst  betide  me,  why,  better  axe  or  rope, 

Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  Peters  for  a 
pope  ! 

Alas,  alas,  my  gallant  Guy ! — out  on  the  crop-eared 
boor, 

That  sent  me  with  my  standard  on  foot  from  Marston 
Moor!" 

(1830.) 


THE  COVENANTER'S  LAMENT  FOR  BOTH- 
WELL  ERIGG. 


THE  men  of  sin  prevail  ! 

Once  more  the  prince  of  this  world  lifts  his  horn : 
Judah  is  scattered  as  the  chaff  is  borne 

Before  the  stormy  gale. 

Where  are  our  brethren  ?  where 
The  good  and  true,  the  terrible  and  fleet/? 
They  whom  we  loved,  with  whom  we  sat  at  meat. 

With  whom  we  kneeled  in  prayer? 

Mangled  and  marred  they  lie, 
Upon  the  bloody  pillow  of  their  rest : 
Stern  Dalzell  smiles,  and  Clavers  with  a  jest 

Spurs  his  fierce  charger  by. 

So  let  our  foes  rejoice  ; — 

We  to  the  Lord,  who  hears  their  impious  boasts, 
Will  call  for  comfort ;  to  the  God  of  Hosts 

We  will  lift  up  our  voice. 


42          LAMENT     FOR      B  O  T  H  W  E  L  L     B  R  1  G  G  . 

Give  ear  unto  our  song  ; 
For  we  are  wandering  o'er  our  native  land, 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd ;  and  the  hand 

Of  wicked  men  is  strong. 

Only  to  thee  we  bow. 

Our  lips  have  drained  the  fury  of  thy  cup ; 
And  the  deep  murmurs  of  our  hearts  go  up 

To  heaven  for  vengeance  now. 

Avenge, — oh,  not  our  years 

Of  pain  and  wrong;  the  blood  of  martyrs  shed ; 
The  ashes  heaped  upon  the  hoary  head ; 

The  maiden's  silent  tears ; 

The  babe's  bread  torn  away ; 
The  harvest  blasted  by  the  war-steed's  hoof ; 
The  red  flame  wreathing  o'er  the  cottage  roof ; 

Judge  not  for  these  to-day ! 

Is  not  thine  own  dread  rod 

Mocked  by  the  proud,  thy  holy  book  disdained, 
Thy  name  blasphemed,  thy  temple   courts  profaned  ? 

Avenge  thyself,  O  God  ! 

Break  Pharaoh's  iron  crown  ; 

Kind  with  new  chains  their  nobles  and  their  kings ; 
Wash  from  thine  house  the  blood  of  unclean  things ; 

And  hurl  their  Dagon  down  ! 

Come  in  thine  own  good  time  ! 
We  will  abide  :  we  have  not  turned  from  thee ; 
Though  in  a  world  of  grief  our  portion  be, 

Of  bitter  grief,  and  crime. 


LAMENT     FOR     BOTH  WELL      BRIGG.  403 

Be  thou  our  guard  and  guide  ! 
Forth  from  the  spoiler's  synagogue  we  go, 
That  we  may  worship  where  the  torrents  flow, 

And  where  the  whirlwinds  ride. 

From  lonely  rocks  and  caves 
\\re  will  pour  forth  our  sacrifice  of  prayer. — 
On,  brethren,  to  the  mountains  !     Seek  we  there 

Safe  temples,  quiet  graves  i 

(1830.) 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN   UNDER   A  PICTURE    OP   KING'S    COLLEGE 
CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE. 

EXTRACTED   FROM   AN    ALBUM   IN   DEVONSHIRE. 

MOST  beautiful ! — 1  gaze  and  gaze 

In  silence  on  the  glorious  pile ; 
And  the  glad  thoughts  of  other  days 

Come  thronging  back  the  while. 
To  me  dim  Memory  makes  more  dear 

The  perfect  grandeur  of  the  shrine  ; 
But  if  I  stood  a  stranger  here, 

The  ground  were  still  divine. 

Some  awe  the  good  and  wise  have  felt, 

As  reverently  their  feet  have  trod 
On  any  spot  where  man  hath  knelt, 

To  commune  with  his  God ; 
By  sacred  spring,  or  haunted  well, 

Beneath  the  ruined  temple's  gloom, 
Beside  the  feeble  hermit's  cell, 

Or  the  false  prophet's  tomb. 


STANZAS.  405 

But  when  was  high  devotion  graced, 

With  lovelier  dwelling,  loftier  throne, 
Than  here  the  limner's  art  hath  traced 

From  the  time-honored  stone  ? 
The  spirit  here  of  worship  seems 

To  hold  the  soul  in  willing  thrall, 
And  heavenward  hopes  and  holy  dreams 

Come  at  her  voiceless  call ; — 

At  midnight,  when  the  lonely  moon 

Looks  from  a  vapor's  silvery  fold ; 
At  morning,  when  the  sun  of  June 

Crests  the  high  towers  with  gold ; 
For  every  change  of  hour  and  form 

Makes  that  fair  scene  more  deeply  fair; 
And  dusk  and  daybreak,  calm  and  storm, 

Are  all  religion  there. 


(1830.) 


LINES 

WRITTEN    FOR    A    BLANK    PAGE    OF    "  THE    KEEPSAKE." 

LADY,  there's  fragrance  in  your  sighs, 

And  sunlight  in  your  glances ; 
I  never  saw  such  lips  and  eyes 

In  pictures  or  romances  ; 
And  Love  will  readily  suppose, 

To  make  you  quite  enslaving, 
That  you  have  taste  for  verse  and  prose, 

Hot  pressed,  and  line  engraving. 

And  then,  you  waltz  so  like  a  Fay, 

That  round  you  envy  rankles  ; 
Your  partner's  head  is  turned,  they  say, 

As  surely  as  his  ankles; 
And  I  was  taught,  in  days  far  gone, 

By  a  most  prudent  mother, 
That  in  this  world  of  sorrow,  one 

Good  turn  deserves  another. 

I  may  not  win  you  ! — that's  a  bore! 

But  yet  'tis  sweet  to  woo  you ; 
And  for  this  cause, — and  twenty  more, 

I  send  this  gay  book  to  you. 


LINES    FOR    UTHE    KEEPSAKE.'1  407 

If  its  songs  please  you, — by  this  light! 

I  will  not  hold  it  treason 
To  bid  you  dream  of  me  to-night, 

And  dance  with  me  next  season. 


(1830.) 


ANTICIPATION. 

"  OH  yes  !  he  is  in  Parliament ; 

He's  been  returning  thanks  ; 
You  can't  conceive  the  time  he's  spent 

Already  on  his  franks. 
He'll  think  of  nothing,  night  and  day, 

But  place,  and  the  gazette  :" 
No  matter  what  the  people  say, — 

You  won't  believe  them  yet. 

"He  filled  an  album,  long  ago, 

With  such  delicious  rhymes; 
Now  we  shall  only  see,  you  know, 

His  speeches  in  the  '  Times  ;' 
And  liquid  tone  and  beaming  brow, 

Bright  eyes  and  locks  of  jet, 
He'll  care  for  no  such  nonsense  now  :"- 

Oh  !  don't  believe  them  yet ! 

"  I  vow  he's  turned  a  Goth,  a  Hun, 

By  that  disgusting  Bill ; 
He'll  never  make  another  pun ; 

He's  danced  his  last  quadrille. 
We  shall  not  see  him  flirt  again 

With  any  fair  coquette ; 
He'll  never  laugh  at  Drury  Lane."- 

Psha ! — don't  believe  them  yet. 


ANTICIPATION.  409 

uLast  week  I  heard  his  uncle  boast 

He's  sure  to  have  the  seals  ; 
I  read  it  in  the  '  Morning  Post' 

That  he  has  dined  at  Peel's ; 
You'll  never  see  him  any  more, 

He's  in  a  different  set ; 
He  cannot  eat  at  half-past  four  :" — 

No  ? — don't  believe  them  yet. 

u  In  short,  he'll  soon  be  false  and  cold, 

And  infinitely  wise ; 
He'll  grow  next  year  extremely  old, 

He'll  tell  enormous  lies ; 
He'll  learn  to  flatter  and  forsake, 

To  feign  and  to  forget :" — 
O  whisper — or  my  heart  will  break — 

You  won't  believe  them  yet  1 

(1830.) 

18 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN    IN    LADY    MYRTLE'S    BOCCACCIO. 


IN  these  gay  pages  there  is  food 
For  every  mind,  and  every  mood, 

Fair  Lady,  if  you  dare  to  spell  them  : 
Now  merriment,  now  grief  prevails ; 
But  yet  the  best  of  all  the  tales 

Is  of  the  young  group  met  to  tell  them. 

II. 

Oh,  was  it  not  a  pleasant  thought, 
To  set  the  pestilence  at  nought, 

Chatting  among  sweet  streams  and  flowers; 
Of  jealous  husbands,  fickle  wives, 
Of  all  the  tricks  which  love  contrives, 

To  see  through  veils,  and  talk  through  tow 
ers? 

in. 

Lady,  they  say  the  fearful  guest, 
Onward,  still  onward,  to  the  west, 


STANZAS.  411 

Poised  on  his  sulphurous  wings,  advances; 
Who,  on  the  frozen  river's  banks, 
Has  thinned  the  Russian  despot's  ranks, 

And  marred  the  might  of  Warsaw's  lances. 

IV. 

Another  year — a  brief,  brief  year ! 
And  lo  !    the  fell  destroyer  here, 

He  conies  with  all  his  gloomy  terrors  ; 
Then  guilt  will  read  the  properest  books, 
And  folly  wear  the  soberest  looks, 

And  virtue  shudder  at  her  errors. 


v. 

And  there'll  be  sermons  in  the  street ; 
And  every  friend  and  foe  we  meet 

Will  wear  the  dismal  garb  of  sorrow ; 
And  quacks  will  send  their  lies  about, 
And  weary  Halford  will  find  out, 

He  must  have  four  new  bays  to-morrow. 

VI. 

But  you  shall  fly  from  these  dark  signs, 
As  did  those  happy  Florentines, 

Ere  from  your  cheek  one  rose  is  faded ; 
And  hide  your  youth  and  loveliness 
In  some  bright  garden's  green  recess, 

By  walls  fenced  round,  by  huge  trees  shaded 


412  STANZAS. 

VII. 

There  brooks  shall  dance  in  light  along, 
And  birds  shall  trill  their  constant  song 

Of  pleasure,  from  their  leafy  dwelling; 
You  shall  have  music,  novels,  toys ; 
But  still  the  chiefest  of  your  joys 

Must  be,  fair  Lady,  story-telling. 

VIII. 

Be  cautious  how  you  choose  your  men  ; 
Don't  look  for  people  of  the  pen, 

Scholars  who  read,  or  write  the  papers ; 
Don't  think  of  wits,  who  talk  to  dine, 
Who  drink  their  patron's  newest  wine, 

And  cure  their  patron's  newest  vapors. 

IX. 

Avoid  all  youths  who  toil  for  praise 
By  quoting  Liston's  last  new  phrase  ; 

Or  sigh  to  leave  high  fame  behind  them ; 
For  swallowing  swords,  or  dancing  jigs, 
Or  imitating  ducks  and  pigs ; 

Take  men  of  sense, — if  you  can  find  them. 

x. 

Live,  laugh,  tell  stories;  ere  they're  told, 
New  themes  succeed  upon  the  old ; 

New  follies  come,  new  faults,  new  fashions ; 


S  T  A  X  Z  A  S  . 


1  1 


An  hour,  a  minute,  will  supply 
To  thought,  a  folio  history 

Of  blighted  hopes,  and  thwarted  passions. 

XI. 

King  Death,  when  he  has  snatched  away 
Drunkards  from  brandy,  Dukes  from  play, 

And  Common-councilmen  from  turtle  ; 
Shall  break  his  dart  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
And  mutter  in  his  fierce  despair, 

"Why,  what's  become  of  Lady  Myrtle?'1 

(1831.) 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM,  THE  GIFT  OF  QUEEN  ADELAIDE 
TO  LADY  MAYO. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  bounteous  Fay 

Beside  a  cradle  sang  one  day ; 

The  mother  heard  not,  but  the  child 

In  her  glad  dream  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  rose — a  rose  for  thee, 

The  sweetest  of  my  bower ; 
It  is  a  token  thou  shalt  be 

As  lovely  and  loved  a  flower  : 
Thou  too  shalt  brightly  bloom,  and  wear 

In  future  years,  as  now, 
Deep  beauty  in  thy  sunny  hair, 

Blue  eyes,  and  tranquil  brow. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  lute — an  ivory  lute ; 

I  bring  it  for  a  sign 
That  "VVit  shall  sue  with  an  anxious  suit 

For  a  look  or  a  word  of  thine. 
Grave  Science  at  thy  feet  shall  lay 

Whate'er  the  wise  have  known, 
And  Music  charm  thy  cares  away 

With  her  most  delicious  tone. 


LINES     IX     AN     ALBUM.  41 

"  I  bring  thee  a  sceptre  !  wake  and  gaze 

On  the  symbol  of  high  command : 

nation's  love,  in  after  days, 

Shall  trust  it  to  thy  hand, 
When  from  thy  home  thou  shalt  depart 

And  go  o'er  the  bounding  wave 
To  be  the  Bride  of  a  Monarch's  heart, 

The  Queen  of  the  free  and  brave. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  Book — a  holy  Book  : 

In  all  thy  grief  and  mirth 
It  is  a  spell  to  bid  thee  look 

Still  up  to  Heaven  from  earth, 
And  turn  to  Him  who  alone  forgives 

With  a  firm  and  faithful  trust, 
And  live  the  life  which  virtue  lives, 

And  die,  as  die  the  just !" 

I  need  not  whisper  to  your  thought 

For  what  fair  child  those  gifts  were  wrought, 

Nor  tell  how  true  our  English  eyes 

Have  found  the  Fairy's  prophecies. 


(1831.) 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  SAME,  UNDER  <Y  PICTURE  OF  THE 
DUCAL  PALACE  AT  HESSE  HOMBURG,  THE  RESI 
DENCE  OF  THE  PRINCESS  ELIZABETH,  DAUGHTER  OF 
GEORGE  III. 

IT  is  a  joyous  land,  I  guess  ; 

The  sun  shines  bright,,  the  breeze  roves  free  ; 
And  Nature  flings  her  fairest  dress 

On  humble  herb  and  lofty  tree ; 
But  thou  wilt  think  in  those  far  bowers, 

With  half  a  smile,  and  half  a  sigh, 
Thy  childhood  wreathed  as  fragrant  flowers, 

And  laughed  beneath  as  warm  a  sky. 

And  proudly  o'er  those  poplars  tall 

And  tapering  firs  the  Palace  gleams ; 
But  ah!  the  time-worn  Castle's  wall 

Is  still  remembered  in  thy  dreams ; 
And  that  broad  Terrace  still  is  dear, 

Where,  when  the  star  of  day  went  down, 
Thy  good  old  Sire  went  forth  to  hear 

Rich  blessings,  richer  than  his  crown. 

And  other  friends  are  round  thee  now 

Than  those  that  shared  thine  early  mirth  ; 


LINES     IN      AN     ALBUM.  4 1 7 

And  thou  hast  newer  slaves  to  bow, 
And  foreign  lutes  to  hymn  thy  worth ; 

But  thou  wilt  never  quite  forget 

That  here,  where  first  thy  praise  was  heard, 

Thy  virtues  are  recorded  yet, 

Thy  name  is  yet  a  household  word. 

And  if  thou  ne'er  may'st  see  again 

The  white  cliffs  of  thy  fatherland, 
And  if  henceforth  we  seek  in  vain 

Thy  cheering  smile,  and  bounteous  hand,— 
Thou  wilt  be  what  thou  wast  and  art, 

Where'er  thy  bark  may  chance  to  roam ; 
And  thou  wilt  keep  thine  English  heart, 

And  thou  wilt  love  thine  English  home ! 

(1831.) 

18* 


LINES 

WRITTEN       UNDER       A      PORTRAIT       OF       LORD      MAYO, 
DRAWN     BY     THE      QUEEN. 

A  COURTIER  of  the  nobler  sort, 
A  Christian  of  the  purer  school ; — 

Tory,  when  Whigs  are  great  at  Court, 
And  Protestant,  when  Papists  rule  ; 

Prompt  to  support  the  Monarch's  crown, 
As  prompt  to  dry  the  poor  man's  tears ; 

Yet  fearing  not  the  Premier's  frown, 
And  seeking  not  the  rabble's  cheers ; 

Still  ready, — favored  or  disgraced, — 
To  do  the  right,  to  speak  the  true ; — 

The  Artist  who  these  features  traced 
A  better  Subject  never  knew ! 

(NOVEMBER,   1833,) 


LINES 

WRITTEN       UNDER      A      VIEW       OF       BEKSTED       LODGE, 
BOGNOR. 

IF  e'er  again  my  wayward  fate 
Should  bring  me,  Lady,  to  your  gate, 
The  trees  and  flowers  might  seem  as  fair 
As  in  remembered  days  they  were  ; 
But  should  I  in  their  loved  haunts  find 
The  friends  that  were  so  bright  and  kind  ? 

My  heart  would  seek  with  vain  regret 
Some  tones  and  looks  it  dreams  of  yet ; 
I  could  not  follow  through  the  dance 
The  heroine  of  my  first  romance  ; 
At  his  own  board  I  could  not  see 
The  kind  old  man  that  welcomed  me. 

When  round  the  grape's  rich  juices  pass, 
Sir  William  does  not  drain  his  glass  ; 
When  music  charms  the  listening  throng, 
"  0  Pescator"  is  not  the  song ; 
Queen  Mab  is  ageing  very  fast, 
And  Coalebs  has  a  wife  at  last. 

I  too  am  changed,  as  others  are  ; 
I'm  graver,  wiser,  sadder  for  : 


420  BERSTED      LODGE,      BOG  NOR. 

I  study  reasons  more  than  rhymes, 
And  leave  my  Petrarch  for  the  "  Times," 
And  turn  from  Laura's  auburn  locks 
To  ask  my  friend  the  price  of  stocks. 

A  wondrous  song  does  Memory  sing, 
A  merry — yet  a  mournful  thing  ; 
When  thirteen  years  have  fleeted  by, 
'Twere  hard  to  say  if  you  or  I 
Would  gain  or  lose  in  smiles  or  tears, — 
By  just  forgetting  thirteen  years. 

(1833.) 


LATIN  HYMN   TO  THE  VIRGIN. 


VIIIGIX  Mother,  thou  hast  known 
Joy  and  sorrow  like  my  own  ; 
In  thy  arms  the  bright  Babe  lay, 
As  my  own  in  mine  to-day ; 

So  he  wept  and  so  he  smiled  ; 

Ave  Mary !  guard  my  child ! 

n. 

From  the  pains  and  perils  spread 
Round  about  our  path  and  bed, 
Fierce  desires,  ambitious  schemes, 
Moody  doubts,  fantastic  dreams, 
Pleasures  idle,  passions  wild, 
Ave  Mnry  !  guard  my  child  ! 

in. 

Make  him  whatsoe'er  may  be 
Dearest  to  the  saints  and  thee  ; 
Tell  him,  from  the  throne  above, 
What  to  loathe  and  what  to  love  ; 
To  be  true  and  just  and  mild, 
Ave  Mary  !  teach  my  child ! 


422  LATIN     HYMN     TO     THE     VIRGIN, 

IV. 

By  the  wondrous  mercy  won 
For  the  world  by  thy  blest  Son, 
By  the  rest  his  labors  wrought, 
By  the  bliss  his  tortures  bought, 
By  the  Heaven  he  reconciled, 
Ave  Mary  !  bless  my  child  ! 


If  about  his  after  fate 

Sin  and  sorrow  darkly  wait, 

Take  him  rather  to  thine  arms 

From  the  world  and  the  world's  harms ; 

Thus  unscathed,  thus  undefiled, 

Ave  Mary  !  take  my  child ! 


THE    SABBATH. 


FOR  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made  ? — 

It  brings  repose  and  rest ; 
It  hushes  study's  aching  head, 

Ambition's  anxious  breast : 
The  slave  that  digs  the  mine, 

The  serf  that  ploughs  the  soil, 
For  them  it  was  ordained  to  shine  ; — 

It  is  for  all  that  toil. 

ii. 

For  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made  ? — 

It  opens  the  Book  of  Peace, 
Which  tells  of  flowers  that  never  fade, 

Of  songs  that  never  cease  : 
If  the  hopes  you  nursed  decline, 

If  the  friends  you  cherished  die, 
For  you  it  was  ordained  to  shine ; — • 

It  is  for  all  that  sigh. 

in. 

For  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made  ? — 
It  calls  the  wretch  to  prayer, 


424  THE     SABBAT  IT. 

Whose  soul  the  noonday  thoughts  upbraid 
And  the  midnight  visions  scare  : 

It  calls  thee  to  the  shrine  ; 
Fear'st  thou  to  enter  in  ? 

For  thee  it  was  ordained  to  shine- 
It  is  for  all  that  sin. 


THE  NEWLY- WEDDED. 

i. 

Now  the  rite  is  duly  done  ; 

Now  the  word  is  spoken ; 
And  the  spell  has  made  us  one 

Which  may  ne'er  be  broken  : 
Rest  we,  dearest,  in  our  home, — 

Roam  we  o'er  the  heather, — 
We  shall  rest,  and  we  shall  roam, 

Shall  we  not  ?  together. 

II. 

From  this  hour  the  summer  rose 

Sweeter  breathes  to  charm  us  ; 
From  this  hour  the  winter  snows 

Lighter  fall  to  harm  us  : 
Fair  or  foul — on  land  or  sea — 

Come  the  wind  or  weather, 
Best  and  worst,  whate'er  they  be, 

We  shall  share  together. 

in. 

Death,  who  friend  from  friend  can  part, 
Brother  rend  from  brother, 


426  THE    x  r:  w  L  v  -  w  E  D  n  E  D  . 

Shall  but  link  us,  heart  and  heart, 
Closer  to  each  other : 

We  will  call  his  anger  play, 
Deem  his  dart  a  feather, 

When  we  meet  him  on  our  way 

Hand  in  hand  together. 
(1835.) 


TO    HELEN. 

WKITTEN  IN  THE    FIRST  LEAF  OF  KEBLE's    "  CHRISTIAN 
TEAR,"  A    IITRTIIDAY    PRESENT. 

MY  Helen,  for  its  golden  fraught 

Of  prayer  and  praise,  of  dream  and  thought, 

Where  Poesy  finds  fitting  voice 

For  all  who  hope,  fear,  grieve,  rejoice, 

Long  have  I  loved,  and  studied  long, 

The  pious  minstrel's  varied  song. 

Whence  is  the  volume  dearer  now  ? 
There  gleams  a  smile  upon  your  brow, 
Wherein,  methinks,  I  read  how  well 
You  guess  the  reason,  ere  I  tell, 
Which  makes  to  me  the  simple  rhymes 
More  prized,  more  conned,  a  hundred  times. 

Ere  vanished  quite  the  dread  and  doubt 
Affection  ne'er  was  born  without, 
Found  we  not  here  a  magic  key 
Opening  thy  secret  soul  to  me  ? 
Found  we  not  here  a  mystic  sign 
Interpreting  thy  heart  to  mine  ? 


4l'8  TO     HELEN. 

What  sympathies  up-springing  fast 
Through  all  the  future,  all  the  past, 
In  teuderest  links  began  to  bind 
Spirit  to  spirit,  mind  to  mind, 
As  we,  together  wandering  o'er 
The  little  volume's  precious  store, 

Mused,  with  alternate  smile  and  tear, 
On  the  high  themes  awakened  here 
Of  fervent  hope,  of  calm  belief, 
Of  cheering  joy,  of  chastening  grief, 
The  trials  borne,  the  sins  forgiven, 
The  task  on  earth,  the  meed  in  Heaven. 

My  Own !  oh,  surely  from  above 
Was  shed  that  confidence  of  love, 
Which,  in  such  happy  moments  nursed 
When  soul  with  soul  had  converse  first, 
Now  through  the  snares  and  storms  of  life 
Blesses  the  husband  and  the  wife ! 

(FEBEUAEY  12,  1836.) 


TO    HELEN. 

WHEX  some  grim  sorceress,  whose  skill 
Had  bound  :i  sprite  to  work  her  will, 
In  mirth  or  malice  chose  to  ask 
Of  the  faint  slave  the  hardest  task, 

She  sent  him  forth  to  gather  up 
Great  Ganges  in  :m  acorn-cup, 
Or  heaven's  unnumbered  stars  to  bring 
In  compass  of  a  signet  ring. 

Thus  Helen  bids  her  poet  write 
The  thanks  lie  owes  this  morning's  light ; 
And  "  Give  me," — so  he  hears  her  say, — 
"Four  verses,  only  four,  to-day." 

Dearest  and  best !  she  knows,  if  wit 
Could  ever  half  love's  debt  acquit, 
Each  of  her  tones  and  of  her  looks 
Would  have  its  four,  not  lines,  but  books. 

(HOUSE  OF  COMMONS, 
July  7,  1836.) 


SKETCH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 

FIVE  MONTHS  OLD. 

MY  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower, 

Methinks,  if  I  to-morrow 
Could  manage,  just  for  half  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalize  a  few 

Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 

With  newer  still  replaces. 

I'd  paint,  my  child,  your  deep  blue  eyes, 

Their  quick  and  earnest  flashes ; 
I'd  paint  the  fringe  that  round  them  lies, 

The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes ; 
I'd  draw  with  most  fastidious  care 

One  eyebrow,  then  the  other, 
And  that  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 

The  forehead  of  your  mother. 

I'd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 
Where  health  in  sunshine  dances  ; 

And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 
A  thousand  voiceless  fancies  ; 

And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long, 
The  neck,  more  smooth  pnd  snowv 


SKETCH  OF  A   YOUNG   LADY.         431 

Than  ever  yet  in  schoolboy's  song 
Had  Caroline  or  Chloe. 


Nor  less  on  those  twin  rounded  arms 

My  new-found  skill  would  linger, 
Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 

Of  every  tiny  finger  ; 
Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one, 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  though  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  they'd  jump  forever. 

But  then  your  odd  endearing  ways — 

What  study  e'er  could  catch  them  ? 
Your  aimless  gestures,  endless  plays — 

What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them  ? 
Your  lively  leap  of  merriment, 

Your  murmur  of  petition, 
Your  serious  silence  of  content, 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed, 

For  Art's  most  fine  creations  ! — 
Grow  on,  sweet  baby  ;  we  will  need, 

To  note  your  transformations, 
No  picture  of  your  form  or  face, 

Your  waking  or  your  sleeping, 
But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 

And  (rust  to  Memory's  keeping. 


432        SKETCH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Hereafter,  when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty, 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  fears, 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty, 
May  those  who  watch  our  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties, 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint, 

As  now  we  deem  her  beauties. 

(OCTOBER  10,  1836.) 


SONNET 

TO    E.    C.    HILDYARD. 

PROFIT  and  praise  attend  you,  wheresoe'er 
You  charm  the  country,  or  amaze  the  town, 
With  flow  of  argument,  and  flow  of  gown ! 

I  will  not  here  forget  you  ;  but  will  spare, 

Amidst  ray  tranquil  joys,  a  wish  and  prayer 
That  you  may  win  quick  riches,  high  renown,- 
Hereafter,  better  gifts — more  like  my  own  ! 

O  kindest  found,  when  kindness  was  most  rare! 

When  I  recall  the  days  of  hope  and  fear 
In  which  I  first  dared  call  my  Helen  mine, 

Or  the  sweet  hour  when  first  upon  my  ear 
Broke  the  shrill  cry  of  little  Adeline, 

The  memory  of  your  friendship,  Friend  sincere, 
Among  such  memories  grateful  I  entwine. 

(OCTOBER  15,  1836.) 
19 


SONXET 

TO    B.    J.    M.    P. 

A  SAD  return,  my  Brother,  thine  must  be 

To  thy  void  home !  loosed  is  the  silver  chain, 
The  golden  bowl  is  broken  ! — not  again 

Love's  fond  caress  and  Childhood's  earnest  glee 

After  dull  toil  may  greet  and  gladden  thee. 
How  shall  we  bid  the  mourner  not  complain, 
Xot  murmur,  not  despond? — ah  me,  most  vain 

Is  sympathy,  ho\v  soft  soe'er  the  key, 

And  argument,  how  grave  soe'er  the  tone! 

In  our  still  chambers,  on  our  bended  knees, 
Pray  we  for  better  help !     There  is  but  One 

Who  shall  from  sorrow,  as  from  sin,  release  : 
God  send  thee  peace,  my  Brother!   God  alone 

Guideth  the  fountains  of  eternal  peace. 

(OCTOBER  19,  1836.) 


TO   IIELEX, 
WITH  CRABBE'S  POEMS — A  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT. 

GIVE  Crabbe,  dear  Helen,  on  your  shelf, 
A  place  by  Wordsworth's  mightier  self; 
In  token  th:it  your  taste,  self-wrong! it 
From  mines  of  independent  though f, 
And  shaped  by  no  exclusive  ride 
Of  whim  or  fashion,  sect  or  school, 
Can  honor  Genius,  whatsoe'er 
The  garb  it  chance  or  choose  to  wear. 

Nor  deem,  dear  Helen,  unallied 
The  bards  we  station  side  by  side ; 
Different  their  harps, — to  each  his  own  ; 
But  both  are  true  and  pure  of  tone. 
Brethren,  methinks,  in  times  like  ours 
Of  misused  gifts,  perverted  powers, — 
Brethren  are  they,  whose  kindred  song 
Nor  hides  the  Right,  nor  gilds  the  Wrong. 

(FEBRUARY    12.   1837.) 


TO  HELEN. 

WHAT  prayer,  dear  Helen,  shall  I  pray, 

On  this  my  brightest  ho'iday, 

To  the  great  Giver  of  all  good, 

By  whom  our  thoughts  are  understood — 

Lowly  or  lofty,  wild  or  weak — 

Long  ere  the  tardy  tongue  can  speak  ? 

For  you,  my  treasure,  let  me  pray 
That,  as  swift  Time  shall  steal  away 
Year  after  year,  you  ne'er  may  deem 
The  radiance  of  this  morning's  beam 
Less  happy — holy — than  you  know 
It  dawned  for  us  two  years  ngo. 

And  for  our  infants  let  me  pray — 
Our  little  precious  babes — that  they, 
Whate'er  their  lot  in  future  ye.'irs, 
Sorrow  or  gladness,  smiles  or  tears, 
May  own  whatever  is,  is  just, 
And  learn  their  mother's  hope  and  trust. 

And  for  my  own  heart  let  me  pray 
That  God  mny  mould  me  d  iv  by  day, 


TO     HELEN. 


By  grace  descending  from  above, 
More  worthy  of  the  joy  and  love 
Which  His  beneficence  divine 
On  this,  my  best  of  days,  made  mine. 

(JULY  7,  1831.) 


437 


SONNET 

WRITTEN    IX    THE    FIRST    LEAF    OF    LOCK  HART' S    "  LIFE 
OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT." 

Lo  the  magician,  whose  enchantments  loud 
To  the  dim  past  a  fresh  and  fairy  light, 
Who  makes  the  absent  present  to  our  sight, 

And  calls  the  de-id  to  life !     Till  time  shall  end, 

O'er  him  the  grateful  Muses  shall  extend 
Unfading  laurels;  yet  inethinks,  of  right, 
With  holier  glory  shall  his  fame  be  bright, — • 

Leal  subject,  honest  patriot,  cordial  friend. 

Of  such  a  spirit,  by  your  cheerful  fire 

This  record,  Helen,  welcome  shall  appear ; 

To  which  your  husband-lover's  duteous  lyre, 
Not  tuneless  yet,  swe:-t  Helen,  to  your  ear, 

Adds  the  warm  wish  these  winter  eyes  inspire, 
"A  merry  Christmas,  and  a  glad  New  Year!" 

(DECEMBER  25,  1837.) 


VERSES 

WRITTEN     IX     THE     FIKST    LEAF     OF    A    CHILES    IJOOK, 
GIVEN  BY TO  HER  GODSON,  AGED  FOUR. 

MY  little  Freddy,  when  you  look 
Into  this  nice  new  story-book 

Which  is  my  Christmas  present, 
You'll  find  it  full  of  verse  and  prose, 
And  pictures  too,  which  I  suppose 

Will  make  them  both  more  pleasunt. 

Stories  are  here  of  girls  and  boys, 
Of  all  their  tasks,  and  all  their  toys, 

Their  sorrows  and  their  pleasures ; 
Stories  of  cuckoos,  dogs,  and  bees, 
Of  fragrant  flowers  and  beauteous  trees, 

In  short,  a  hoard  of  treasures. 

When  you  have  spelled  the  volume  through, 
One  tale  wTill  yet  remain  for  you, — 

(I  hope  you'll  read  it  clearly ;) 
'Tis  of  a  godmamma,  who  proves 
By  such  slight  token,  that  she  loves 

Her  godchild  very  d early. 

(DECEMBER  25,  1837.) 


TO  HELEN, 

WITH    A    SMALL    CANDLESTICK A    BIRTHDAY    PRESENT. 

IF,  wandering  in  a  wizard's  car 

Through  yon  blue  ether,  I  were  able 
To  fashion  of  a  little  star 
A  taper  for  my  Helen's  table, — 

"  What  then  ?"  she  asks  me  with  a  laugh  ; — 
Why  then,  with  all  Heaven's  lustre  glowing, 

It  would  not  gild  her  path  with  half 

The  light  her  love  o'er  mine  is  throwing ! 

(FEBRUARY  12,  1838.) 


TO  HELEN, 

.          WITH   SOUTHEY'S  POEMS. 

A  HAPPY  and  a  holy  day 

Is  this  alike  to  soul  and  sight ; 
With  cheerful  love  and  joyful  lay 

Would  I,  dear  Helen,  greet  its  light. 

But  vain  the  purpose — very  vain ! 

I  cannot  play  the  minstrel's  part, 
When  recent  cnre  and  present  pain 

Untune  the  lyre,  unnerve  the  heart. 

Yet  prize  these  tomes  of  golden  rhyme; 

And  let  them  tell  you,  in  far  years, 
When  faint  the  record  traced  by  Time 

Of  brightest  smiles  or  saddest  tears, 

As  sunward  rose  the  Persian's  prayer, 

Though  clouds  might  dim  the  votary's  view, 

So  still,  through  doubt  and  grief  and  care, 
My  spirit,  Helen,  turned  to  you. 

(JULY  7,  1838.) 
19* 


THE  HOME  OF  IJIS  CHILDHOOD. 

i. 

HE  knows  that  the  paleness  still  grows  on  his  check, 

He  ft1  els  th:it  the  fever  still  burns  on  his  brow, 
And  what  in  his  thought,  in  his  dream,  does  he  seek 

Far,  i'ar  o'er  the  oc.>an  that  circles  him  now? 
'Tis   the  home   of  Ins  Childhood  !  the  first  and  the 
best ! 

O,  why  have  you  hurried  him  over  the  wave, 
That  the  hand  of  the  stranger  may  tend  on  his  rest, 

That  the   foot  of  the  stranger  may  tread  on  his 
grave  ? 

ii. 

Here  the  sun  may  be  brighter,  the  heaven  more  blue, 

But,  oh!  to  his  eyes  they  are  joyless  and  dim  : 
Here  the  flowers  may  be  richer  of  perfume  and  hue, — 

They  are  not  so  fair  nor  so  fragrant  to  him : 
'Tis  the  Home  of  his  Childhood!  Oh,  bear  him  again 

To    the   play-haunted    lawn,    to    the    love-lighted 

room, 
That  his  mother  may  watch  by  his  pillow  of  pain, 

That    his    father   may    whisper  a  prayer  o'er   his 
tomb  ! 

(ST.  LEOX  AUI/  S-ON -ri E A, 
December  22,  18:'>8.) 


TO  HELEX, 

WITH    A    DIARY,    A    BIRTHDAY    PRESENT. 

IF  daily  to  these  tablets  fair 

My  Helen  shall  intrust  a  part 
Of  every  thought,  dream,  wish,  find  prayer, 

Born  from  her  head  or  from  her  heart, 

Well  may  I  say  each  little  page 

More  precious  records  soon  will  grace, 

Than  ever  yet  did  bard  or  sage 
From  store  of  truth  or  fable  trace. 

Affection — friendship  here  will  glow, 
The  (laughter's  and  the  mother's  love, 

And  charity  to  man  below, 
And  piety  to  God  above. 

Such  annals,  artless  tho  igh  they  be, 
Of  all  that  is  most  pure  and  bright — 

Oh,  blessed  are  the  eyes  that  see ! 

More  blessed  are  the  hands  that  write ! 

(FEBRUARY  12,   1839.) 


TO  HELEN. 

DEAREST,  I  did  not  dream,  four  years  ago, 

When  through  your  veil  I  saw  your  bright  tear 

shine, 
Caught  your  clear  whisper,  exquisitely  low, 

And  felt  your  soft  hand  tremble  into  mine, 
That  in  so  brief — so  very  brief  a  space, 

He,  who  in  love  both  clouds  and  cheers  our  life, 
Would  lay  on  you,  so  full  of  light,  joy,  grace, 

The  darker,  sadder  duties  of  the  wife, — 
Doubts,  fears,  and  frequent  toil,  and  constant  care 

For  this  poor  frame,  by  sickness  sore  bested ; 
The  daily  tendance  on  the  fractious  chair, 

The  nightly  vigil  by  the  feverish  bed. 

Yet  not  un welcomed  doth  this  morn  arise, 
Though  with  more  gladsome  beams  it  might  have 

shone : 
Strength   of  these   weak  hands,  light  of  these   dim 

eyes, 
In  sickness,  as  in  health, — bless  you,  My  Own ! 

(SuDBURY.  July  7,  1839.) 

<1 
OF 

END   OF    VOL.    I.  tftl 


DORAN'S   NEW   BOOK. 


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Genius  is  nearly  universally  synthetic — but  Poe  was  an  exception  to  all  rules.  Ho 
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are  giving  their  own  individual  experiences.  The  reader  can  scarcely  divest  h:s 
•iiind.  even  in  reading  the  most  fanciful  of  his  stories,  that  the  events  of  it  ha-c 
not  actually  occurred,  and  the  characters  had  a  real  existence."— J'hiladelphirt 
Ledger. 

W.  J.  WIDDLETON, 

Pl'JLTSHKR,   17  MERCER  STREKT.  NEW  YORK. 


IN    BLUE    AND    GOLD. 


THE 


POKMS  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE 


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hut  seldom  meet  with  in  this  world,  his  own  'Kaven'  in  disguise — 'nothing 
more.'  His  genius,  wayward  and  wild,  his  love  of  the  beautiful,  centring  in  the 
outward  of  life,  and  the  strange,  dark  spirit  that  seems  ever  to  have  been  his  com 
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conception  and  beauty  of  finish;  but  it  has  been  for  him  to  gain  a  trans-atlantic 
fame,  as  well  as  a  posthumous  one,  before  he  became  generally  known  to  his 
countrymen.  There  is  a  wondrous  winning  characteristic  about  his  poetry  which 
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mind,  it  is  the  thoughts  that  dwell  in  the  memory  of  the  reader  of  Poo's  poetry. 
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